


Theories of Conflict

by WaitingForMy



Series: Andy & B’s Stupid Newsies RPs [2]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Babby Crutchie, Bipolar Disorder, Car Accidents, Enemies to Lovers, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Oops there’s smut as of chapter 63, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Project Partners, Race’s adoptive parents are the best thing we’ve ever created, Religious Themes, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, The siblings that write Newsies trash together stay together, This is an ongoing RP, suicidal behavior, trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2020-12-16 15:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 109
Words: 335,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForMy/pseuds/WaitingForMy
Summary: Race is determined to make his senior year of high school the best of his life, but his plan is complicated when he is assigned to work on a project with his childhood bully...who is, unfortunately, very attractive.





	1. The Triumphant Return of Mini-Satan

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this is happening. Please note that, although I have put them in a series, this takes place in an entirely different universe than The Torrid Affair of Kack Jelly and Kosher Dave from Manhattan. Please make no mistake; this is trash. Welcome to Theories of Conflict.
> 
> 5/13/2020 UPDATE: We have decided to remove Archive warnings from this story, because some of them would amount to major spoilers. However, this story DOES NOT contain underage or rape/non-con.

Anthony “Racetrack” Higgins was, he swore on his life, going to make his senior of high school the best of his life—an easy goal, really. When you’re a senior, the world is your oyster. They give you whatever you want. Race felt like the king of Duane High School as he waltzed into AP biology with all the expected grace of a dancer and collapsed into a seat next to his best friend Albert, who was glaring at him. Race offered a dazzling smile in return as he slung a strap of his book bag over the back of his seat. “Whassamatter, Bertie Boy?”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into AP biology,” Albert grumbled.

“Ah, c’mon, you’re smart enough. It’ll be fun!” Race assured him, lightly smacking his shoulder with the back of his hand.

Albert groaned. “You and Specs are the only reason I passed regular Bio. How the hell am I—”

“You forget yourself, Albert. _ You _ aren’t going to pass this class. _ I _am going to pass this class twice, but once will be under a false name that just so happens to be your name.” Another dazzling, scrunched up smile as this stupid boy delighted in how smart and hilarious he was.

Albert rolled his eyes so hard, his whole head went with them. “If I fail this class and don’t get into college and never get a job, it’s _ your _ doorstep I’ll be on.”

“Sounds good to me! We can have a bachelor pad, and I’ll be the smart, successful one, and you can be the bum!”

“Oh, fuck you.”

The teacher stood up from her desk at the front of the room, calling for quiet. Once the classroom had mostly settled down, she began to talk. “Alright, class. Welcome to AP Biology. Before we get started, we have a new student joining us.” She motioned towards the doorway, and twenty-five sets of eyes followed her.

This new student was gorgeous. Black hair, piercing brown eyes, and a very confident presence about him. He looked rather angry as well, but most noticeably, he was short. Like, real short. 

Race’s eyebrows went up, and he leaned diagonally backwards towards Albert, still facing towards the new kid. “Oooh, what do we have here?” he said, much in the way one would ask what ever happened to romance.

“He just moved into the area,” the teacher went on, “so let’s add ‘making a good impression’ to the long list of reasons I expect you all to be on your best behavior in this class.”

Albert hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “I swear to god, Race, if you ditch me in this class for a pair of biceps—”

Race shushed him. How was he supposed to plan the speech he would give his children about meeting their father on the first day of AP Biology with all that racket?

The teacher let out a long-suffering sigh. “Albert DaSilva and Anthony Higgins, you are seniors at this school. Do not make me separate you like third graders.”

Race offered her a glowing and oh-so-innocent smile. “Sorry, Mrs. McNamera.”

She shook her head. “Alright, I’m passing out the syllabus. Please take one and—”

Race had already zoned out on what little he could see of the new guy’s ass through the back of his chair.

It was a good twenty minutes later when Albert smacked his arm, jerking him out of his fourteenth daydream involving himself, the new kid, and the stairwell by the gymnasium. Mrs. McNamera was in the middle of explaining the big project for the semester—a research paper and presentation. It was going to be a partnered project, and it would last throughout the whole semester. She passed a stack of papers to a kid in the first row, and he took one packet, passing the pile on to his neighbor. Mrs. McNamera started going down her list, partnering kids up.

“I used a random generator to make these pairs, and they are final, so I don’t want to hear any complaining,” she explained. “You’re all big kids. You can handle it. Please raise your hand when I call your name. Kayley Atkins and Hope Carlisle. Donovan Reynolds and Samantha Logan. Anthony Higgins and Sean Conlon.”

Race lifted his hand up as he heard his name, but then froze, his face twisting in surprise and confusion at the name matched with his. He shot a look at Albert, who raised his eyebrows in recognition, and then his eyes widened and his jaw dropped a tiny bit, eyes fixed on the front row of desks, where Sean Conlon had raised his hand. Race whipped around to see what Albert had seen, and his jaw dropped completely in horror as he realized that the painfully gorgeous new kid was none other than Sean Conlon.

* * *

Mercifully, the next period was lunch, and the instant the bell rang, Race and Albert piled their stuff haphazardly into their bags, and darted out the door.

“_Sean Conlon?_” Race nearly shrieked as they walked quickly towards the cafeteria, putting distance between themselves and the classroom as fast as they could without actually running.

“Would you keep your fuckin’ voice down?” Albert scolded him. “Maybe it’s not the same guy.”

“No way, I’d recognize that bastard anywhere,” Race hissed.

“Yeah, except ya didn’t,” Albert pointed out flatly, and Race smacked his chest.

“Shut up, I just needed my memory jogged. I was a bit distracted cause he’s _ hot, now?_”

“Who’s hot, now?” asked one Jack Kelly as he fell into step beside Albert.

Albert scoffed. “Sean Conlon.”

“Woah.” Jack frowned. “Wait, hold up— ‘_Spot _ Conlon’ Sean Conlon?” He looked past Albert to Race. “Called you gay and broke your nose in third grade Sean Conlon?”

Race whined, nodding. “He just moved back, and now he’s my partner for the semester project in AP Bio.”

“Shit. He still short as hell? I’ll kick his ass for ya.”

“He’d snap you like a twig,” Albert said. “The dude looks like he shoots up protein powder.”

Race whined again, twisting his noodley self around as if he could physically dodge the existence of Spot Conlon. “He’s fucking _ beautiful_. Why does God hate me?”

“God hates fags, remember?” Albert said casually, and Jack smacked him on the back of the head.

Race laughed. “Fair point.”

The three found an empty table and sat down. Race immediately put his face on the table and groaned loudly and unhappily.

“Think he remembers you?” Albert asked, producing a Capri-Sun, then another, then—oh my god, how many Capri-Suns were in his backpack, where were his books?—another, then a few extras.

Blindly, Race reached out and pawed around the table, searching for a Capri-Sun. His hand landed on Albert’s, and he lifted his head to look at him. “Aww, babe!” He wiggled his eyebrows and then dropped his head back into the table. He continued his search until his hand connected with crinkly foil, and he dragged a Capri-Sun towards his head. “God, I hope not. If he’s forgot, I can just pretend none of it ever happened and it’ll be fine and he’ll only hate me as much as any average hot guy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Albert said. “I don’t hate you.”

In perfect synchronicity, Jack and Race both reached over and smacked Albert.

“Ow!” Albert exclaimed, over-dramatically as always.

“Nyeh, shuddup,” Race grumbled, finally sitting up and pulling a paper bag out of his backpack. He unceremoniously dumped his lunch on the table, then looked up in time to see Jack and Albert’s deer-in-headlights expressions for approximately half a second before a voice—one that was new but oh so familiar—right behind him said, “Uh, Race?” Eyes as big as dinner plates, he froze, not even breathing. Maybe it’d go away if he passed out…

“Do...you still go by that?”

Race made a sound rather like a deflating balloon as he let his breath out and turned to face the boy behind him. He hoisted a strained smile onto his face, and met the eyes of his childhood bully for the first time in years. “Yeah, mostly.”

Sean Conlon, also known as Satan himself, the bane of eight-year-old Race’s existence, nodded. “Cool. Well, uh, I kinda need your contact info.”

“Right, yeah, that’s a thing.” Race nodded. His face felt entirely detached from the rest of him as he kept smiling, and he held his hand out for Spot’s phone. “I’ll put my number in and you can just text me so I have yours too.”

“Sure, sure.” Spot handed over a black iPhone that was at least two generations out of date, then shoved his hands back in his pockets.

Race punched his number in and handed it back. Spot’s fingers brushed against his as he took it, and Race tried his damndest not to wince.

“Thanks,” Spot said. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, sure.” Race continued cringe-smiling at him until he was at least thirty feet away, then whirled around to slam his face into the table again, groaning loudly.

“Holy shit,” Jack laughed incredulously. “What kinda Hercules-ass transformation did _ he _ go through?”

“I’m dyyyyying,” Race whined into the table.

“Oh my god, turn him gay—it’s the ultimate revenge!”

“I’m pretty sure he came in his pants just looking at the guy,” Albert interjected. “If they actually had sex, he’d probably burst into flames.”

Race chucked his stolen Capri-Sun at Albert’s face.

“Why are you booing me?” Albert asked through a mouthful of whatever actual food he had for lunch—possibly a congealed block of Capri-Sun. “I’m right.”

“No, you’re a bastard,” Race muttered into the table.

“‘S my mother’s fault, not mine.”

Race sat up and found more things to throw at Albert. Mostly more Capri-Suns.

“Woah, okay.” Jack deflected the crossfire. “Let’s settle down a little. Race, you haven’t seen Conlon in, what, eight years? People change. It’ll probably be fine.”

“And if it ain’t, we’ll skunk him.” Albert gestured to Jack in agreement. “Sure, he’s jacked, but he can’t stop all of us. Like Area 51.”

Race sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, leaving it all standing on end, like a startled echidna. “Yeah, you’re probably right...”

“Of course, we’re right,” Jack said resolutely, then went back to eating his corned beef sandwich as if the world hadn’t been flipped on its head.

* * *

After dinner, Race had flopped down in the living room, taking up ninety-percent of the couch as he lay across it diagonally, with one leg kicked up over the back, and his head very near to falling off the edge of the cushion he was laying on. The TV was on, and Race was staring at the screen with only mild interest as National Treasure played. Mrs. Higgins called from the kitchen, asking him to turn it down. He grabbed for the remote, holding his other hand in a resolute fist in front of him as he muttered along with the movie, “I’m gonna steal the Declaration of Independence.”

Joel and Rachel Higgins had first opened their arms to Race when he was twelve, just on the edge of being an unwantable adolescent. The adoption papers were signed about eight months later, and they had adored him ever since. It was a perfect match, really. They got the little boy they’d always wanted, even if he wasn’t that little, he’d gotten the family _ he’d _ always wanted, and he didn’t even have to change school districts.

Mr. Higgins walked through the living room, affectionately clapping Race’s knee that was hooked over the back of the couch.

“Hey, Sport. Good day?”

Race groaned. “Dad, oh my god.”

Mr. Higgins held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, just thought I’d try it out. No ‘Sport’, got it.”

“Yeah, that’s a hard pass,” Race snickered, a shit eating grin spreading across his face at his almost pun.

Mr. Higgins chuckled. “Alright, we’ll stick with ‘Bud’ for now.” He settled into the recliner next to the couch. “How’d your last first day of school go?”

Race shrugged, though it didn’t really work right, hanging upside down on the couch. “Mostly uneventful, and then _ very _ eventful, and then full of existential dread.”

Mr. Higgins frowned. “Do elaborate?”

“So in third grade, there was this kid, Sean. He was a real dickwad, and I was his favorite punching bag.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You know, called me gay, broke my nose, all that good kid stuff.”

Mr. Higgins nodded and waited for him to continue.

“He moved away, and I mostly forgot he even existed, but,” Race sighed heavily, “turns out he just moved back, switched into Duane, and to top it all off, he’s my partner for the semester-long project in AP Bio.”

“Can’t you ask your teacher to switch partners?”

He shook his head, pressing his lips into a tight line. “She said no changing.”

“But this is a real problem,” Mr. Higgins insisted, a crease appearing on his forehead where is always did when he was unhappy about something. “If she doesn’t listen to you, I’ll talk to her. We can go to the principle, if we have to—”

“Dad, Dad, it’s fine, really. It was ten years ago. People change. I’ll let you know if he breaks my nose again, I promise.” Race smiled reassuringly. The _ last _ thing he wanted was for daddy to swoop down and rescue him from big bad Spot Conlon—well, not so big, but definitely bad. Kicking up a fuss and hiding behind his parents was a death sentence if ever there was one.

Mr. Higgins pursed his lips. “If you say so. But if you feel unsafe, it’s okay to get help.” He leaned forward to make closer eye contact with Race. “No one gets to make you feel unsafe for being you.”

A proper smile slid onto Race’s face. “Thanks, Dad. I think it’ll be fine, though. Albert’s in the class, too, and he’s always got my back if shit goes down.”

“Tony,” Mrs. Higgins scolded from the kitchen.

Race bit his bottom lip in a sheepish smile. “If _ stuff _ goes down. Sorry, Mom!”

Mr. Higgins tossed a wink in Race’s direction and nodded approvingly.

“My point is,” Race continued, “I got backup.”

“Good. You tell Jack and Al I’ll bail them out if they have to punch someone for you.”

Mrs. Higgins appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. “Boys.”

“You got it, Dad,” Race snickered.

Mrs. Higgins sighed. “I don’t like the idea of you being around someone with a known record of violence all semester.”

“He was a third grade bully, Mom. I don’t think that really counts as a record. He’s a di—meanie head,” Race very badly dodged saying ‘dickhead’ and continued, “but I doubt he’s actually gonna _ do _ anything. It’s just really awkward.”

“If it’s going to affect your ability to focus and do your work, you should talk to the teacher or let us do it,” she argued.

“My work’s gonna be fine, Ma. I’m a genius, remember?”

“Seriously, Tony,” Mr. Higgins butted in. He didn’t really need to say ‘seriously.’ He only called his son ‘Tony’ instead of ‘Bud’ when he was serious. “If you’re uncomfortable, even a little—”

Race wiggled a little so he started sliding off the couch. “I’m uncomfortable with how long this has been the topic of conversation—does that count?”

“Fine, fine.” Mr. Higgins raised his hands in surrender again. “How was your last first day of school, otherwise?”

“It was good,” Race replied, now properly hanging off the couch, with the top of his head resting on the floor. “Nothing else catastrophic, except Albert once again falling in love with about five freshmen girls.”

Both of Race’s parents cringed.

He nodded—well, sort of. “Yup. All of ‘em blonde and clearly even dumber than he is.”

Mr. Higgins hummed disapprovingly. “I won’t be bailing him out for that.”

Race laughed. “You’d go broke before you managed to bail him out of blonde bimbo jail.” Mrs. Higgins cleared her throat pointedly, and Race smiled sheepishly once again. “Sorry, Mom.”

The telltale _ ding _ of a text message sounded. He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, flipping it around right way up, and glanced at the screen.

The text came from an unknown number. “_Hi. This is Spot._” Another text came in, then. “_Syllabus says we have to pick a topic pretty quick. Any ideas?_”

Race dropped his phone, and it bounced off his face before hitting the floor.

Mr. Higgins snorted. “You okay, bud?”

“Yeah, fine,” he muttered, sliding the rest of the way off the couch and rolling to sit cross legged on the floor. He grabbed his phone and stared at the message, entirely unsure what to say, and entirely sure that he didn’t want to say anything at all.

* * *

The next morning was about an average morning. Race had three bowls of Lucky Charms for breakfast, missed the bus by literally five seconds but managed to chase it down, and got through his first two classes peacefully. Once the bell rang for the end of second period, Race slowly pushed his stuff off his desk and into his bag, trying to delay the inevitable. Alas, AP Biology waits for no man, so Race got his ass up and into the correct classroom. He took his seat next to Albert, and it wasn’t lost on him that they had swapped moods from the first day.

Albert nodded in greeting. “‘Sup, pissy?”

Race grunted in reply, piling pencils onto his desk.

“Oh, come on.” Albert punched Race’s shoulder.

“Heyyy,” he whined. “Why are you such a bully?” He paused and gave a little snort of laughter at his own choice of words. Race was very funny. At least, he told people he was.

Albert rolled his eyes, then turned them towards the door. “Oh hey, look who it is.”

Race turned to see none other than Spot Conlon making a beeline towards him and Albert. A part of Race was delighted by the cinematically ironic timing, but that part was wildly overshadowed by the rock of dread sitting in his stomach.

“Hey, did you get my texts?” Spot asked, with the look of a man who saw the read receipts and was looking to see if Race would lie.

Race met his gaze and pulled on what he hoped was a face of recognition and maybe a bit of regret. “Oh shit, yeah, sorry. I was gonna respond but then I didn’t.”

Albert snorted.

Spot frowned. “Yeah, okay. Well, we gotta talk about it, so maybe we can talk over lunch.” His tone didn’t leave much room for refusal.

“Yeah, okay,” Race answered, already formulating plans to sneak into the rafters of the gymnasium.

Spot nodded and made his way back to the seat he’d claimed on the first day.

Race turned his gaze heavily to Albert. “This. Is the worst.”

Albert pulled a piece of paper out of his notebook and started writing something. Race watched, suspicious, and Albert ignored him. He leaned sideways towards him, trying to read over his shoulder, and Albert elbowed him back into his own seat.

“Don’t mind me—just writing the speech I’m gonna read at your funeral.”

Race whined, halfway laughing. “You suck.”

“Race was my best friend. He died how he lived—a massive twink.”

Race burst into proper laughter. Mercifully, Mrs. McNamera arrived and distracted Race from his impending doom with a review of the levels of analysis.

* * *

An hour later, Race shook his hand out, cramped from writing notes. He always took meticulous notes in his classes, not for himself, but to sell to classmates. He’d make copies in the computer lab later and add his own input and tips and such in the margins on some of them. Those he’d charge extra for. First, however, he had to survive lunch with none other than card-carrying homophobe Spot Conlon.

“D’you think he’d notice if we just sent some other curly-haired, blond kid, and I ran away?” Race asked Albert while the classroom churned into motion as everyone packed up their desks and left for the cafeteria.

“Probably.” Albert nodded. “I’ve heard he can smell fear.”

Race groaned, rolling his head around in fit full unhappiness.

Albert shrugged his backpack onto his shoulder. “Good luck. I’ll tell your parents you loved them.” He clapped Race on the shoulder as he stepped past him.

“What? No, you can’t leave me!” he yelped, grabbing ahold of Albert’s hand with both of his own.

“Gay,” Albert deadpanned.

“Thanks for noticing.”

“You’re welcome.” Albert winked and pulled his hand away.

“You’re never around when I need you!” Race wailed at Albert’s back as he walked out of the classroom.

Albert waved over his shoulder as he disappeared out of the door amongst the sea of students, and Race groaned, rolling his head again, but this time his upper body followed as well. He grumbled to himself—stuff like ‘abandonment’, ‘traitor to the cause’, ‘Judas’, and so on—as he finished reloading his backpack. He stood, and found himself face to face with Spot Conlon.

“So,” Spot said gruffly, “any ideas?”

Race sighed, shouldering his bag. “Well, she said it can be whatever we want, so long as it relates to evolutionary theory.”

Spot nodded. “You ever heard of parent-offspring conflict theory?”

“Probably,” he replied flatly, and started walking towards the door.

Spot rolled his eyes. “Cool. You wanna do that, then?”

Race shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” He was uncomfortably aware of the way he was walking, and the fact that Spot Conlon—who was now very hot—was following him. Not that Spot, of all people, would have any interest in Race’s ass.

“I saved the link to a paper on it,” Spot said. “Pretty weird shit, but makes sense when you think about it.”

Race nodded. “Sounds great.” They had established their topic, why was he still following him?

“Dude, would you slow down?”

He smirked, glancing over his shoulder at Spot. “Sorry, long legs.”

Spot narrowed his eyes like he _ knew _ it was a dig. Race questioned his decisions.

“So uh...” He looked around awkwardly. They’d made it to the cafeteria, and Race could see Jack, Albert, and another friend, Romeo, sitting at a table near the middle of the room. Albert, having spotted them, elbowed Romeo in the ribs, directing the table’s attention to the doorway. All three grinned, wiggling their fingers at him, and Race sneered back.

“You have a laptop? We could start lit review,” Spot suggested, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to research the evolutionary theory of parent-offspring conflict with the kid you tortured in elementary school.

Race’s sneer turned into a pained smile. “Yeah, sure, let's do that.”


	2. Only Witches Can Write in Italics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Spot meet at Starbucks to discuss their project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention: My sibling's Race, I'm Spot, and we're sharing everyone else so far. Have I mentioned that we love Mr. and Mrs. Higgins? We love Mr. and Mrs. Higgins.

Race avoided Spot as much as he could, but it wasn’t very long until he cornered him, demanding to set up a study session. In fear for his life, he agreed, and he was seriously regretting it as he rolled up to the Starbucks on the corner where Race had insisted they meet, figuring it was less convenient to commit a hate crime in a public place.

Race went inside, looking around, and was relieved to see he had gotten there first. He went to the counter, ordered himself a drink, and found a table, nice and central in the room. Spot arrived a few minutes later, nodded in acknowledgement of Race’s presence, and headed to the counter to order his own drink. Race nodded back, trying his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut that told him his life was bound to end this semester with a dramatic reenactment of the opening of IT: Chapter Two. Minus the clown. Presumably.

Spot sat down across from Race and slapped a notebook down on the table. “Hey.”

Race hoisted what he hoped was a smile onto his face. “How’s it goin’?”

“Good.” Spot opened his notebook to a particular page and shoved is across the table to Race. On it, he had handwritten eight APA-style citations. “Here’s what I’ve got. That first one’s the important one.”

Race nodded absentmindedly at ‘Trivers, Robert L. (1974) Parent-offspring conflict. _ Am Zoology_—’ Oh, he can write in italics. Clearly, he’s a witch. ‘—14, 249–264.’

“Right, looks good,” he replied, pushing the notebook back and pulling out his laptop. “I uh, I made a Google Doc, so...”

Spot shifted a little. “Uh, cool. I don’t have a laptop, so I’ll have to look at it when I get home.”

“Oh, okay.” Race shrugged. “There’s nothin’ in it yet anyway.”

“I’ll put my citations in there when I get home, I guess,” Spot said, and if Race didn’t know better, he’d have thought he sounded embarrassed.

“Yeah, whatever.” He opened a new tab and started a search for parent-offspring conflict theory.

Spot fidgeted in his seat. “Let me know what you find.”

Race nodded, not particularly listening to him as he clicked through various findings. “‘S kinda interesting, sorta genetically competing for attention.”

Spot nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, all that shit about degrees of relatedness and whatnot. Like, did you know one of the top predictors of child abuse is having a stepparent? S’cause they don’t really have any stake in the offspring, evolutionarily speaking.”

Race nodded, lips pursed in a show of mild interest. “Sounds like some bullshit, but okay.”

Spot shrugged. “Think about how many animals straight up murder kids that aren’t their own. It makes sense. You give resources to a kid that ain’t yours, you have fewer to give to your own kids.”

Race smiled tightly, almost baring his teeth at the other boy. “Wonder how that stuff affects families that adopt.”

“I don’t know, but I bet someone’s studied it.” Spot frowned contemplatively. “Hey, we could do the project on that.”

Race couldn’t completely stifle a rather angry laugh, so it came out in a sort of choked cough. He quickly downed the rest of his iced coffee, attempting very unsuccessfully to pass the whole thing off. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah that sounds pretty interesting. It would be really cool if we could find people to, like, interview, yknow?” He pressed his lips together, trying his damndest to keep his shit together.

“Wasn’t Jack Kelly adopted?” Spot flipped to the next blank page in his notebook and began taking notes. He went on without letting Race answer. “I mean, it’s basically brood parasitism, right? Not necessarily in context, but in effect.”

“Yeah. Not sure a kid’s gonna wanna talk about how his parents are somewhat statistically likely to kill him, though.” His face was twisted into what was definitely more of a snarl than a smile.

Spot laughed, oblivious. “That’s not what I said.”

“Oh, well then, what did you say?”

“That it’s _ more _ likely than with, like, real parents, you know?” Spot gestured with his pen. “Not that it’s _ likely_.”

“Oh, _ real _ parents?” Race’s voice was rising slowly in both tone and volume as his fuse burned shorter and shorter. Spot had no idea what a hole he was digging himself into, but that didn’t make Race any less angry about it.

Spot finally looked up at him. “Yeah. You know, biological parents.”

Race was technically smiling, but it looked a bit too tight and a bit too sharp. “Yeah, I know what you meant.”

Spot raised an eyebrow. “You good, Race?”

“I’m great, why do you ask?”

Spot pointed to the counter. “Because they’ve called your name twice.”

Race looked up. “Oh. Thanks.” He didn’t sound at all grateful as he got up and walked towards the counter. It was official. Well, it had been official, but now it was officially official. Race hated Spot Conlon. He pulled out his phone, furiously texting Albert as he claimed his second coffee at the counter. “_This piece of shit has been going on for at least five minutes about how my parents are statistically more likely to abuse me because they aren’t ‘real’ parents. I stg if he wasn’t built like a tiny, stupid oak tree, I’d deck him_.”

Albert responded quickly. “_wtf? how did that even come up?” _

“_We’re doing our thing on parent-offspring conflict theory. It’s basically genetically fighting for attention. Parents are genetically inclined to care for their kids, so if there isn’t shared blood, that incentive isn’t there_.”

“_wow that’s pretty fucked up_.”

“_Al I really wanna punch him but I think I’d die from the impact._” Race glanced over towards the table, not wanting to go back and have to talk to Spot more.

“_what a way to go_.”

“_Jack gets to write my eulogy_.”

“_hey!!! my eulogy for you was beautiful_.”

“_it was accurate, I dunno about beautiful_.”

Race retrieved his second cold brew with salted cream and reluctantly returned to the table, where Spot had produced a book from his bag and was reading intently. He sat down and took a slow drink. Anything to delay more conversation.

Spot glanced up from his book and frowned at Race’s drink. “What is that?”

“It’s coffee. What’s it look like?” Race retorted, setting it down on the table.

“A milkshake,” Spot said simply.

Race huffed, not quite laughing. “Well, it ain’t.”

The baristas called for Spot, and Spot went to get his drink—probably a nonfat latte with a shot of the blood of innocent gays—leaving Race alone at the table for a moment. Grumbling, he reached across the table and grabbed Spot’s notebook, dragging it across the table towards him. He clicked back to the Google Doc and started typing in the handwritten citations at an honestly impressive speed, reading as he went. Some of them didn’t look very relevant to their newly chosen topic, but it was clear that Spot was at least putting in an effort, so that was a plus—beautiful, smart, independent, a complete asshole—

Spot returned to the table a moment later and returned to his book, biting his lip in concentration as he read. Race glanced up as he sat down, and his eyes caught on his mouth for a moment too long. He shook his head shortly, as if his brain were an etch-a-sketch and he needed to erase the very distracting image of Spot Conlon’s lips.

“What’re you reading?” he asked.

“Book I found at the library. S’got some useful stuff.”

He rolled his eyes. ‘Book’ with ‘useful stuff’. How informative. “Thanks for sharing.”

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Spot closed the book and sat back to look at Race.

“What?”

“Bein’ all snippy with me like I killed your father or somethin.” Spot crossed his upsettingly toned arms over his upsettingly toned chest.

Race burst into furious laughter. He had no idea how Spot found out. His past—family wise—wasn’t really a thing he advertised. Not many people even knew he was adopted, let alone how he had landed in the system in the first place. It just figured that Spot fucking Conlon would’ve dug it up somehow. After all, he had to make up for the lost years of torment.

Race stood up, snapping his laptop closed. “Go fuck yourself, Conlon.”

“Dude, seriously, what the fuck are you on about?”

He pushed his laptop into his backpack, and slung one strap over his shoulder. “I don’t know who told you,” Race snapped, “but tell them to fuck themselves, too.”

“Told me—” Spot scoffed, “Nah, you know what? You’re crazy.” He started packing his things up as well.

Race smiled viciously. “Great addition. Very unique.” He slammed his chair back in against the table and without another word stalked out the door.

* * *

The front door crashed open, and Race rushed inside, closing the door again and slamming his back up against it as hot, angry tears fell down his face. He dropped his backpack and kicked it before sliding down to the floor, tucking his knees up to his chest and burying his face in his arms.

“Tony?” his mom called from the other room.

He didn’t answer, too busy trying to choke back the angry sobs ripping out of his chest.

“Tony, what happened?” Her voice was a little closer, and then Race could hear her footsteps approaching.

He stood up and wiped the back of his hand roughly across his eyes, but the tears tracks he wiped away were immediately replaced by more. “Nothing. It’s stupid,” he answered thickly.

“Oh, sweetie...” Mrs. Higgins pulled him into a hug. “Come on, tell me what’s upsetting you.”

At seventeen, Race was a good two inches taller than his mother, but the minute her arms were around him, he crumpled against her, burying his face in her shoulder and feeling so small. She rubbed his back soothingly, murmuring softly that she was there and it was okay.

After a few seconds, he straightened up again, pulling gently out of her arms and brushing his hand across his face again as he moved over to sit on the couch. “So I met Spot to study or whatever, right?”

She nodded, posture remaining neutral even as a spark seemed to light up behind her eyes.

“Well,” Race sniffled briefly, “we’re doing our project on parent-offspring conflict theory. Genetically competing for attention, sort of. Parents are biologically inclined to care for their young, and all that. Outta nowhere, he brought up that one of the top predictors of child abuse is stepparents. Since they’re not genetically obligated to the kid, they ‘don’t really have any stake in the offspring’.” He twisted his voice in a mockery of Spot’s as he quoted him. “An’ I disagreed, of course.” He gestured towards Mrs. Higgins and continued. “An’ he suggested we do our project on how that sorta shit affects families that adopt. Called it ‘brood parasitism’.” Another angry sniffle. “Said abuse is more likely in them than in families with ‘real’ parents.” The tears began to fall again as Race ground the words between his teeth. “He made a joke about my father being dead. I don’t know the _ fuck _ told him—” He hissed, entirely forgetting to watch his language for his mom.

She didn’t seem to care, taking his face in her hands and brushing his tears away with her thumbs. “Oh, my baby. I’m so sorry.”

Race took a shaky breath. “I hate him, mom.”

Mrs. Higgins nodded steadily. “Do you want to talk to your teacher?”

Race hesitated. He wanted nothing to do with Spot Conlon, but if he ran from him, that’d just be more ammo in his belt. He shook his head slowly. “I knew he was gonna be an asshole...I just didn’t know he _ knew_. Caught me off guard. I don’t understand how he found out. I mean, other than Albert and Jack and, like, the principal, no one at school knows.”

“Are you sure he really knows?” Mrs. Higgins smoothed down his hair. “He didn’t just say something coincidental?”

Race opened his mouth to answer, then paused. Spot had seemed more oblivious than malicious. And he’d been confused when he got angry...and that bit where he called him crazy... “Maybe?”

His mom’s hand fell to his shoulder. “I am on your side, Anthony,” she said. “Always.”

He smiled weakly. “Thanks, Ma.”

She continued, “You are my son, no matter what anyone says, and I love you more than anything else in the whole world.”

He scooted to the edge of the couch to hug her again. Remaining seated as Mrs. Higgins stood created the illusion of Race being much smaller, and he found himself thinking—as he frequently did—about how much better life would’ve been if he had been their son from the start.


	3. The World's Biggest Idiots Make the World's Smallest S'mores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are chaotic.

“Okay, but how the hell could he have found out?” Albert asked, indignantly.

Race nodded, agreeing. “Exactly. There’s no one that knows that would’ve told him. It’s just _ awful _ on target for being a coincidence.”

“Man,” Jack dragged his fingers slowly and deliberately through his hair, “that is _ so _ fucked up.”

“Right? Piece of shit even brought you into it.”

“Did what?” Jack asked. His eyes went wide. “Oh, _ hell _ no. Did he talk shit about Medda? I swear to god, I’ll rip his dick off.”

Race shook his head. “Nah. I was being a dick and saying it would be cool if we found people to interview—y’know, about how it feels to know your parents are statistically more likely to kill you, cause they aren’t your _ real _ parents—and he suggested you as a subject for the project.”

Jack scoffed. “My real parents are way more likely to kill me than Medda.”

Race chuckled humorlessly. The bell would ring any minute, and then he’d only have one classes before he had to see the devil again. He sighed. Maybe, he’d get lucky and slip and hit his head. Can’t do a project with Satan if you’re in the hospital. Then again, you also can’t dance if you’re in the hospital, and given how that was Race’s only solace, he kept himself in one piece.

* * *

When he walked into AP Bio, Race found that Albert had taken his usual seat, rather than his own, placing himself closer to Spot than Race. He couldn’t help but smile. What a sweetheart. Al may have been a dumbass, but his heart was for sure in the right place.

“What, you my bodyguard now?” Race teased, plunking down in Albert’s now abandoned chair.

“Yep,” Albert said simply, sneaking a Capri-Sun out of his backpack.

Race snickered. “You drink enough of those that I’m pretty convinced you don’t even have blood anymore, just Capri-Sun pumpin’ through your veins.”

Albert nodded. “Probably.”

Mrs. McNamera stood up, beginning the day’s lecture, and Race was distracted for the next hour. Once the bell rang, he stood and started hurriedly packing his bag, hoping to get out before Spot could approach him. Luckily, Spot didn’t seem interested in approaching Race, or anyone else, or anything at all, just staring at his desk as the rest of the students filed out to lunch. Race breathed a sigh of relief once he and Al cleared the threshold of the classroom. He glanced over his shoulder as they headed towards the cafeteria.

“Wonder what’s wrong with him...” he said, curious rather than concerned.

Albert shrugged. “Hopefully, Jack ripped his dick off.”

Race laughed. “Was he trying to?”

“Threatened to. You were there, dingus.”

“Shut up, I know. I meant, like, did he have the opportunity to go for it. Shithead.” He shoved him.

Albert hit him with his backpack. “Not my fault you suck at words.”

Race wailed melodramatically. “This is abuse!”

“Really!?”

Oh shit. That wasn’t Albert. Race turned around, startled. Staring at him with an expression somewhere between incredulity and rage was none other than Spot Conlon.

Spot scoffed bitterly and shook his head. He stormed past Race, knocking him in the shoulder as he went by. “I fucking hate you,” he spat.

Race stumbled from the unexpected impact, looking after him in utter confusion. He looked at Albert. “What the fuck was that!?”

Albert bared his teeth like an animal. “If Jack doesn’t rip his dick off, I’ll do it myself.”

Race grinned, maliciously delighted by this show of loyalty. “Let’s save that for a less public venue, huh?”

Albert grumbled as they made their way into the cafeteria. “Fine.”

* * *

Spot Conlon was starting to wonder if transferring to Duane was a good idea, after all. Sure, he knew a lot of his classmates from elementary, and all his teachers were pretty cool. Almost everything was positive, when he thought about it, but then there was Racetrack fucking Higgins. He wanted to throttle that stupid kid. They could have just done their Biology project and been chill, but nooo. Racetrack Higgins had to be a goddamn drama queen.

Spot's English class had gotten out early, so he found himself sitting in the stairwell, absently scanning over his notes without really reading them. You know, who the hell did Race think he was? Then, he heard the door of the stairwell open, and his quiet study spot (heh) was filled with echoey footsteps and voices. Coming around the corner of the stairs, Jack Kelly and that one red-head that always hung around Race stopped, surprised to find someone sitting on the stairs.

The red-head laughed humorlessly. “Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” Spot said, nodding once. He returned his attention to his notes, fully expecting the two to continue on their way. Whatever they were saying—since they were apparently talking about him—Spot didn’t give a shit. To his surprise, they came a little further up the stairs towards him, but didn’t pass.

“This is great, actually. We were just sayin’ how we wanted to talk to you,” the red-head spoke again.

Spot breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Who’s dick did a fella have to suck to get some peace and quiet around here? “Alright. What’s up?”

“We wanna know who talked, and make sure _ you don’t_.”

Jack rolled his eyes even harder. “Take it easy, Al. This is high school, not CSI.” He turned a level gaze to Spot. “We just wanna know how you found out.”

“Found out ab—” Spot frowned. “Jesus, is this about whatever bullshit Racetrack went off on, yesterday?”

Al laughed a sharp laugh. “‘Bullshit’. Right.” He took half a step forward but was halted by Jack putting a hand in front of him.

“For Christ’s sake,” he said, giving Al an exasperated glance. He turned back to Spot. “C’mon, how’d you know?”

“You were too on the money for it to just be coincidence,” Al agreed.

“I honestly don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Spot said, increasing frustration seeping out in his voice. “One minute, we’re just working on a project. The next, Race’s losin’ his shit.”

Jack looked at Al again, dropping his voice a teeny bit. “I think he really doesn’t know...”

“Know _ what!?_” Spot snapped. “For fuck’s sake.”

“How Race is secretly a parent killing vigilante. Sneaks around at night murdering folks who have evolutionary stakes in their kids,” Albert replied and Jack smacked him in the stomach with the back of his hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack said. “Sorry we interrupted, or whatever.”

Spot huffed. “Look, if Race is so damn upset about something I said, why don’t he just tell me?”

“He doesn’t share with people he doesn’t like,” Jack replied flatly.

“Jeez. Don’t hold back.”

He scoffed. “What, you surprised?”

“I’da thought you had a pretty good handle on the whole ‘hating each other’ thing. I’d guess it solidified that one time you broke his nose,” Al sneered.

“Jesus Christ, that was years ago!” Spot didn’t even try to hide his exasperation. “I was nine! What, does he want an apology?”

Al shrugged. “Yeah probably.”

“Fuckin’ hell.” Spot slammed his notebook shut and crammed it back in his bag. “Fine.” He stood up. “Tell your obnoxious little faggot I’m _ so _ sorry I messed up his pretty face. Don’t talk to me again.” He stalked back down the stairwell, mouth burning from his own choice of words. Fuck Racetrack Higgins _ and _ his stupid friends.

* * *

That day, Race’s usual hasty retreat from AP Bio was halted by Mrs. McNamera, who asked him to hang back so she could talk to him.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Albert teased as he left the classroom, and Race rolled his eyes. He had no idea what he _ could _ be in trouble for. He hadn’t done anything bad so far this year. Well, not in Mrs. McNamera’s class, that is.

She sat on the front of her desk and gestured for Race to sit in the front row. He took a seat, dropping his backpack on the floor next to him.

“What’s up Mrs. McNamera?”

She smiled wanly. “Your partner told me yesterday that you’ve been having some issues. Do you want to tell me about that?”

Race pressed his lips together tightly. Of course Spot would come up with some way to make _ him _ the problem. “What ‘issues’ did he say we’re having?”

Mrs. McNamera seemed to pick up on the edge in his voice, because she changed her tone to a calming one. “Just that you’re not getting along, and he’s concerned. I wanted to hear your side.”

Race exhaled shortly, not quite a laugh. Spot was concerned. Right. “Well, I wasn’t so hot on the partnership to begin with, what with him tormenting me for three years, but I’m a team player, so I was gonna just handle it—be the bigger person or whatever. Then, he started talking bad about...”

Race hesitated. As he’d said to his mom, the only person at school, other than his friends, who properly knew about his past was the principal. In elementary and middle school, all his teachers had known—parent-teacher conferences sorta can’t happen if there aren’t parents, so that probably tipped them off—but he’d been adopted by the Higginses just before hitting high school, so everything could be normal. Race didn’t particularly want his past spreading around. He already had enough drama and unwanted attention, being the gay ballet boy.

“Talking bad about what?” his teacher asked, obliviously.

“My...family...” Race said, hesitantly.

Mrs. McNamera hummed, lowering her eyebrows and pressing her lips together in a thin line. “I think it might be beneficial for the both of you to talk to me together.”

Race stifled a groan. “Like, right now?”

“No, you go to lunch,” she said, standing. “We’ll talk about it and get it worked out, though. It’s just for a project. And Anthony?”

As soon as she said ‘you go’, he had stood up and grabbed his bag, ready to head out the door, but he paused as she said his name, looking back at her again.

“You are _ smart_,” she told him. “You can do really well in this class. Don’t let this drag you down.”

A small, grateful smile pricked at the corners of Race’s mouth. “Thanks Mrs. McNamera. That means a lot.” The little smile quickly bloomed into a shit eating grin. “Though I’ve got it on pretty good authority that I’m a chronic dumbass.”

The teacher groaned. “Don’t say that. I’m supposed to give you detention for that kind of language.”

He simply shot her an obnoxious wink and was out the door.

* * *

Race had been dancing his whole life. For a long time, it was just him copying what he saw on TV or in movies on the group home’s big, clunky TV. As soon as he was welcomed into the Higgins family, they got him formal lessons at a nearby studio. He went four times a week, learning jazz, tap, ballroom, contemporary, and pretty much anything else the studio offered. His favorite, though, was ballet. For someone who didn’t start when they were five years old, the boy was damn good. Of course, this earned him a great deal of mockery from his peers, but Race didn’t care. Every night—save for Mondays and Wednesdays—he would head to the studio for about two hours and just lose himself in lessons and practice. He would have gone Sundays as well, but church was very important to Mr. and Mrs Higgins. Not that he minded; he quite liked church, he’d just rather be at the studio.

It was Thursday evening, ballet class had just let out, and Race was staying after to practice, as he often did.

His teacher clapped him on the shoulder on her way out. “Don’t practice too hard, Tony,” she instructed, “you’ll hurt yourself.”

He grinned at her, stretching his legs out at the barre. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Susan. Great class tonight.”

She smiled at him, and she slipped out of the room.

Race let out a contented exhale, putting his earbuds in and picking a playlist on his phone as he continued stretching. He’d always been a flexible, noodley boy, but maintenance is still important, no matter the natural talent. After a good twenty minutes, he moved away from the barre and began running through some basic combinations. Dancing, for Race, was mindless. Weightless. All he had to do was hear the music, and the dance just sort of happened. Sometimes, he would realize mid-dance that he had his eyes closed, usually when he would run into a mirror or trip over his backpack. 

There were usually at least three students using the floor at any given time, when there weren’t lessons running. Thankfully, most of the time they were working on the same styles, so there wasn’t much competition over the music. Race, however, almost always chose to listen to his own music, mostly because the other students didn’t appreciate modern rap as a background for classical ballet, but also because it made it that much more secluded and personal. Despite training at the studio for the last five years, he had never participated in a recital or a showcase. When he was dancing, he was in his own private world, and he didn’t want to share it. Of course, sometimes he _ had _to share, if it was a partnered style, but he didn’t mind it so much then.

As he danced, Race was dead to the world. It was just him and the music. That is until, coming out of a _ jeté_, his momentum carried him right into another person, nearly knocking them both down.

“Shit!” He ripped out his earbuds, bringing his focus back to the world around him. Turns out the person he had trampled was none other than Jack Kelly, who had absolutely no business being in a dance studio.

“Jesus Christ, watch where you’re going, twinkle toes,” Jack groaned.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Race demanded.

“Can’t a fella watch his best friend dance?”

He blushed a little, muttering about not being very good, which was, of course, total bullshit.

Jack nodded to the other corner. “Al’s here, too.”

“What the fuuuuuck.” Race turned to look, and Al waved.

“We didn’t have anything better to do,” Jack said, shrugging.

Race cringed. “So what, you just wanna watch me? That’s pretty gay, Jack,”

“You’re pretty gay.”

He shot a single finger gun at him. “That’s true.” He stuffed his earbuds into the pocket of his track pants. “Okay but really, you guys don’t wanna watch me. Let’s find something else to do.”

Jack and Albert nodded their assent, and Race moved to the edge of the room where his backpack, hoodie, and shoes were heaped against the wall.

“So, whaddaya wanna do?”

“We don’t know,” Albert said. “Why do you think we came here?”

Race rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, fair point.” He sat down to put his shoes on, glancing at his phone briefly to check the time. “Well, it’s nine-twenty, so unless we wanna do a super late movie or go rampage through Wal-Mart or something, our options are pretty limited.”

Jack raised his hand. “I vote for the rampage through Wal-Mart.”

Albert nodded in agreement, moving from the corner he had been occupying to come join the other two.

Race stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder, grabbing his hoodie as he straightened up. “That works for me.”

* * *

“Get the gay ones, for Race,” Jack commanded from his awkward position in the cart, arms and legs hanging over the sides, pointing at a bag of rainbow-shaped marshmallows.

“Shut up, Jack; we all know you’re pretty gay.” Albert retrieved the marshmallows and tossed them on top of Jack, anyway.

“Uh-uh. I’m bi. Huge difference.”

“Respect the spectrum, Al,” Race scolded, grabbing a big bag of chocolate chips and throwing them at Jack.

“Respectrum,” Albert whispered, nodding sagely.

“Respectruuum,” Jack and Race chorused, wide eyed at this revelation.

Albert snagged some regular mini-marshmallows. “Gonna need these, too. The gay ones are too big for making the world’s smallest s’mores.”

“We should get Teddy Grahams ‘stead of graham crackers,” Race suggested, looking on the aisle’s end-cap for shish kebab skewers.

“Oh my fucking god, you’re a fucking genius,” Jack said much too loudly.

Albert and Race both shushed him.

“Watch it, he doesn’t need any more ego boosting!” Albert hissed.

Jack held up his hands in surrender, then proceeded to open the bag of gay marshmallows. They found the cookies and crackers aisle, and it took a good five minutes for the three of them to whine and argue their way to an agreement on what flavor of Teddy Grahams to buy.

“We need Original!” Jack shouted through a mouthful of gay marshmallow. “They’re for s’mores!”

“Don’t be so narrow minded. What about cinnamon? Or chocolate chip?” Albert argued as Race ignored the both of them and started putting boxes in the cart.

“Who the fuck puts cinnamon in a s’more!?” Jack grabbed the box of cinnamon and threw it across the aisle.

“Why not!?” Race retorted, chasing after the box and throwing it back at Jack, who blocked it, knocking it back on the floor.

“Now, you’re an abomination against God for _ two _ reasons.”

He laughed. “I’m gonna burn anyway, might as well try to hit the high score on my way down.”

“Devil’s got nothin’ on us,” Albert chimed in. “Race and I are gonna own the place.”

“Hell yeah, we are!” Race replied, and the two high-fived. “Get it?” He leaned over to elbow at Jack. “‘Hell’ yeah?”

Jack batted his face away. Giggling, Race moved to put the box of rejected Teddy Grahams back on the shelf.

“The gay marshmallows suck, by the way,” Jack informed his companions as he shoved another into his mouth.

“Yeah, a lot of us do.”

Jack shrugged. “Well, you’ve gotta be good for something.”

Race threw a package of Goldfish crackers at his face.

“At least get the Extra Cheddar ones!” Jack whined.

Race rolled his eyes, pulling his whole body with them, and returned to the shelf for more Goldfish.

* * *

It was well past midnight now, and the boys had somehow managed to sneak through the dining room window and up the stairs in Albert’s house, each holding two grocery bags, without waking his mom. They were sitting on the floor in his room, huddled tightly around a large unscented scented candle—“The label says ‘fresh breeze’. That’s not a scent.” “It’s a fucking scented candle, of course that’s a scent.”—with the Wal-Mart bags strewn about them. They had been unsuccessful in finding shish kebab skewers, so Race, using scotch tape and toothpicks, had crafted a toasting stick for each of them. They weren’t very sturdy, and Albert kept dropping his marshmallows and getting them all waxy.

“They’re so fucking small, they just melt right off!” he complained.

“Well, they wouldn’t be the worlds smallest s’mores if they weren’t fucking small, would they?” Jack retorted.

Albert flung a molten marshmallow at him.

Jack yelped, diving sideways to the floor to dodge the waxy projectile. “Fuck you, man, I could have died!” he hissed.

“Guys stop wasting marshmallows!” Race whined, trying to toast two at once, and not doing a very good job.

“Dude, you gotta hold the thing up higher,” Jack instructed. “Just let the flames lick it. You know,” he did a very strange ‘licking’ motion with his hand, “lick.”

Albert snorted. “I’m sorry, what was that again?”

“Lick,” Jack repeated with the motion, this time brushing lightly against Albert’s arm.

Albert shuddered, shifting out of reach. “Ew.”

“Al, don’t be a homophobic bitch,” Race quipped. “Being touched by another man is not ‘ew’.”

“He ‘licked’ me!”

“And your point is?”

Albert grumbled nonsense, spearing another marshmallow and trying again to roast it.

“Besides, it wasn’t a lick, it was just my hand,” Jack huffed.

“He’s right.” Race nodded in agreement. “_This _ is a lick.” He grabbed ahold of Albert’s head with both hands and pulled him towards him. At the same time, he leaned forward and licked up the side of his face, not unlike a large and overly-enthusiastic bloodhound.

Albert yelled, smacking and shoving at Race as Jack burst into laughter. Race was pushed off easily, falling back onto his elbows on the carpet, laughing. Albert wailed in agony and fled the room, heading towards the bathroom, and Race and Jack dissolved into a heap of marshmallows and giggles. A minute or so later, Albert came back, and the three returned to their attempts at the world’s tiniest s’mores. It wasn’t long before Albert and Jack got to arguing about technique, and whether the marshmallows should be golden brown or blackened.

Race fell quiet, listening to them quibble. All things considered, and past things put aside, he had a damn good life. He had a perfect family, who he loved more than anything, and they loved him back just as fiercely. He had these two complete idiots, who were the best friends anyone could ask for. He had a comfortable home, and he never had to worry about being hungry—except for when he forgot to pack lunch or bring money, and that was his own damn fault. His family and his friends not only supported him, but also encouraged him to be who he was as a person. He had dance. Life was _ good _...except of course, for the one small little detail of Mini-Satan dropping back out of the sky and gearing up to ruin everything.

Still, Anthony “Racetrack” Higgins was, he swore on his life, going to make his senior of high school the best of his life, and he was not about to let fucking _ Spot Conlon _ get in the way of that.


	4. Race Thinks the Antichrist is Cool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Spot meet with Mrs. McNamera together. It does not go well.

Before class started, Mrs. McNamera had asked Race if he would mind staying a bit after to talk with her and Spot. Race absolutely _ did _ mind, but he said it wasn’t a problem. As she went back to the front of the room, she stopped at Spot’s desk, presumably to ask him the same question. He shot a glance back towards Race, and Race sneered at him before he turned back to nod at Mrs. McNamera.

Albert leaned over from his desk. “Maybe she’ll put you in a ‘get along’ shirt,” he suggested.

Race cringed. “As much as I’d love sharing clothes with a super hot guy, I’d rather that guy not be the devil's favorite nephew.”

Albert’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooh, he’s been downgraded from devil to nephew? What’d he do? Suck your dick?”

Race rolled his eyes. “I wish. Nah, my point is that he isn’t cool enough to be the antichrist, but he’s damn close.”

“I’ma tell your parents that you think the antichrist is cool.” Albert straightened back up at his desk.

“Don’t you dare,” Race hissed, having to fall silent as class began.

It was hard to sit still and focus, what with the impending confrontation. Race ended up tuning most of it out, mumbling “The power of Christ compels you,” and trying to make Spot flinch. Upsettingly, the most flinching he did was near the end of the class, when he crossed his irritatingly toned arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair, stretching. That was a whole new kind of distracting. The _ last _ thing Race needed was an awkward boner going into this meeting, so he spent the last few minutes of class focusing all his energy on the mental image of his pastor naked in a bathtub full of holy water.

The bell finally rang, and all the other students packed up to leave. Albert clapped Race’s shoulder encouragingly as he passed, heading towards the door, and Race remained in his seat, waiting. Once all of the students had gone and the door closed behind them, Mrs. McNamera walked around to the front of her desk and leaned back against it.

“Anthony,” she said, gesturing for him to take a seat in the front next to Spot.

He stood, not quite managing to bite down a sigh, and grabbed his backpack, moving to the front of the room. He sat, leaving an empty desk between himself and Spot.

“Alright,” Mrs. McNamera sighed heavily. “What’s going on, you two?”

Spot scoffed. “Hell if I know.”

Mrs. McNamera shot him a pointed look.

Race rolled his eyes before focusing on Mrs. McNamera. “Just what I toldja before. It was tense starting off, what with his favorite pastime in third grade being ensuring my misery, and then he started talking shit.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “_Both _ of you—watch the language.”

It was too late. Spot was already glaring at Race with murder in his eyes and taking a breath to start ranting. “It was third grade, for fuck’s sake! You’re really gonna hold a grudge and treat me like shit for that? And I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never talked shit.”

“I ain’t holdin’ no grudge!” Race retorted sharply. “I was fine! Concerned, sure, since you got your kicks bustin’ my face up back in the day, but that ain’t a standin’ issue. The _ problem _ is you goin off on my—” he stumbled to a stop, still unwilling to bring direct notice to his unusual familial circumstances.

“Boys—” Mrs. McNamera tried to cut in.

“On your what!?” Spot shouted. “We were just talkin’ about the project, and then you were cussin’ me out and runnin’ off!”

“Oh yeah. The project. _ Totally _ a coincidence that you picked that subject for us to work on,” Race sneered, volume rising as well. “Let’s spend a semester studying how families only count and remain functional and useful if they’re blood! What an _ interesting _ topic!”

“What the fuck—I didn’t say all that!”

“Yes, you did!”

Spot compartmentalized with his hands, as if he were about to suggest that they take Bikini Bottom and push it somewhere else. “We’re taking parent-offspring conflict theory and seeing how it applies to blended families. That’s it! That’s all it is!”

Race began counting off on his fingers. “You suggested a topic that is specifically about the importance of blood relation. This topic also heavily features how parents without ‘genetic stock’ in their young are more likely to abuse or kill them. You suggest we specifically aim our project at seeing this theory applied to non-blood families, so we can see how different it is if you’ve got ‘_real_’ parents or not. And _ then _ you joke about my—”

“So!?” Spot gesticulated wildly. “What’s wrong with that!?”

Race was sputtering, furious, and no longer able to form words. This _ jackass _ was either the stupidest fuck in the world, or he was way too good at playing dumb.

Mrs. McNamera took a deep breath. “Okay. So, Sean, you s—”

“How can you be so _ dumb?_” Race hissed, finally getting some words sifted through the sludge of anger in his mind. “I don’t know if you’re still a sadistic bastard, and you’re just really good at playing it off so _ I _ look like the bad guy, or if you’re just—”

“Oh, fuck you.” Spot stood up at his desk. “If you wanted me to apologize for hitting you when we were kids, you shoulda asked earlier, ‘cause if I was, I sure as hell ain’t sorry no more.”

Race stood as well. “I don’t give a fuck what you are or aren’t sorry for. You’re such a piece of shit. Do you—”

“_I’m _ a piece of shit? I’m not the one who’s such a goddamn drama queen—”

“‘A drama queen’, is it? I ain’t the one startin’ shit! That’s—”

“—acting like he’s being abused when his best friend shoves him in the hallway—”

“That was a fucking _ joke_. Are you that stupid? Maybe you didn’t realize, since it wasn’t about killing someone’s—”

“—don’t fucking know what you’re—”

“_Boys!_” Mrs. McNamera screeched at the top of her lungs.

They stopped, still seething at each other, but now silent.

“If you two can’t act like adults, I don’t see any sense in trying to talk to you like adults,” their teacher said in a falsely calm tone. “Since you can’t treat each other, or me, with respect, I am assigning you both detention.”

Race began to sputter a protest, but stopped at a quelling look from Mrs. McNamera.

Spot fell back into his chair and dragged his hand over his face. “Damn it,” he hissed.

Race sat as well, fuming silently and refusing to look at Spot. Mrs. McNamera handed them both slips of paper and dismissed them to lunch. Race stood, grabbed his backpack, offered her a tight apology, and left the classroom as quickly as he could.

* * *

The next time Race saw Spot Conlon was right before detention. The fucker was so damn short, he’d probably slipped right under Race’s line of sight. In this case, he was sitting on the floor in front of the classroom in which they were to be detained, one hand over his eyes and the other holding his cell phone to his ear.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. We just—” He tightened his grip on the phone. “No, nothing like that, I swear.”

Race glanced briefly through the window in the door, and saw that the class inside was still packing up. He sighed and moved to lean against the wall on the opposite side of the door from where Spot was.

Spot nodded in relation to whatever conversation he was having over the phone. “Right. No, I get that. ‘M sorry. Okay, I’ll—” He pulled the phone away from his ear to look at it. “Shit.” He leaned his head back against the wall and draped his arms across his knees.

Race looked sideways at him, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. Spot either didn’t notice or chose to ignore him. Quickly losing interest, Race pulled out his own phone and started absently flipping through different apps.

As he did, he got a message from one of his dance buddies, Tommy Boy. “_Dude, what did you do?_”

He rolled his eyes and flicked the message open. “_Apparently getting into a shouting match with the world’s shortest jackass in front of a teacher isn’t in line with the school’s behavior code_.”

“_Omg is it that totally jacked hobbit that transferred here this year? Got a name that sounds like a dog?_”

“_Spot Conlon, yeah. He’s a real douche_.”

Tommy Boy proceeded to send four texts rapid-fire.

_ “S” _

_ “P” _

_ “O” _

_ “T” _

Then, a fifth.

“_Do his parents hate him?_”

Race snickered. “_I know I do_.”

“_S P O T_,” Tommy Boy replied. “_Have you tried earning his obedience with beggin’ strips?_”

“_Hot. Maybe if he didn’t want to kill me_.”

The last of the previous class filtered out of the room. As soon as the last student got out of the way, Spot darted in and made a beeline for the back corner. Race rolled off the wall through the door frame, aiming for the opposite corner. He tossed his bag on the floor and dropped, sprawling into the seat. A few more students trickled in, followed by Mr. Miller, the English teacher, who had the misfortune of doubling as detention monitor on that fateful night. Race noticed that a couple of female detainees gravitated toward Spot in the corner. He scoffed, rolling his eyes and settled further into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mr. Miller sat behind the desk and took a long drink, presumably of coffee, out of the travel mug he had brought with him. “Alright, you all know the drill. No talking and all that.”

Race sat still, slumped in his seat, and let his eyes wander the room. A few minutes later, he got uncomfortable, and leaned forward, crossing his arms flat on the desk and resting his cheek against them. He didn’t feel like reading or doing homework, like most of the other detainees were doing, so he let his mind drift instead. He thought about the new choreography for tap, needing to stretch his hips out more for a better turnout, and so on. About ten minutes in, little daydreams about Spot started slipping in, as well, and Race was not pleased. Everything about him rubbed Race the wrong way, from his beautiful face to his ugly personality to his ridiculous Brooklyn accent. Spot Conlon could go die in a hole. After a minute or so, Race realized he was, in fact, staring at Spot, and quickly snapped his gaze to his desk, hoping Spot hadn’t noticed. The time crawled by, and eventually Race got bored enough to actually work on his homework. It wasn’t exactly entertaining, but at least it was something to do.

* * *

By the time Race got home, it was nearly five o’clock, and he felt like his brain had fallen asleep. With only minor key fumbling, he unlocked the front door and went inside, dropping his backpack and kicking off his shoes before heading over to faceplant into the couch.

“Tony?” his mother called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, Mom?” He turned his head so his voice wouldn’t be lost in the couch cushions.

“Can you come here for a minute?”

Race stifled a groan and pushed himself up off the couch. This wasn’t at all the first time he’d gotten detention, so he had a pretty good guess as to what was coming. Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen, he found his mother sitting at the kitchen table, ready for a chat. What threw him off was his father, who was definitely supposed to still be at work, also sitting at the kitchen table, ready for a chat.

Race paused for half a second, surprised, before heading to his seat at the table. “Hey, Dad. You’re home early.”

Ignoring his lame attempt at a deflection, Mrs. Higgins leaned forward, clasping her hands together and resting her forearms on the table. “What happened today, Tony?” she asked gently.

Wincing as he dropped into his chair, Race replied, “I’m assuming you mean detention, not how I convinced Al to let me try to braid his hair?”

She nodded.

He sighed, pushing his fingers through his hair absently. “Well, Mrs. McNamera wanted to talk to me and Spot at the same time, so we stayed after class. I told her what happened, and I didn’t even get out the whole thing before he went off.” He scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. “We uh...sorta got into a shouting match...”

“We were told you got detention for using foul language,” Mr. Higgins said, as if prompting Race to confess.

Race cringed again. “Yeah, that may have been involved...”

“Tony, honey,” his mother spoke gently but firmly, “you know the rules. You have to watch your language.”

Race nodded, genuinely sorry. “I know. I’m sorry, Mom.” He slumped back further into his seat, messing with the short blond curls that flop over his forehead. “I just—… He just—...” He let out a rough exhale, flopping in his seat, unable to properly verbalize his frustration.

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins looked at each other for a couple seconds, having a silent conversation. They turned back to Race.

“Are you doing okay, Tony?” Mrs. Higgins asked.

He looked up at them quickly. “I mean, yeah...?”

“It’s been a while,” Mr. Higgins added.

Race looked down again, very occupied with his hair.

His mom reached over and took one of his hands. “Sweetie, talk to us.”

“We know things happen,” his dad added, “but you’ve been doing so well. If there’s something we need to do to help you—”

Race squeezed his mom’s hand, halfway affectionate, halfway apologetic, and pulled away, almost imperceptibly curling up in his chair. “I’m fine.”

“Okaaay,” his mom said skeptically, “but it’s the first full week of school, Tony. If this is not going to be an isolated incident, we need to figure it out.”

“I can’t see the future,” he muttered, squirming a bit in his seat.

Mr. Higgins gave him a pointed look. “Tony, _ is this going to be an isolated incident?_”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, staring at the table.

After a heavy pause, his mom asked, “Baby, are you taking your medication?”

Race bit his lip, and continued to stare at the table. He shrugged, noncommittally. Both his parents sighed. He moved a hand up to mess with his hair again, unable to meet either of their eyes.

His dad spoke up first. “Bud...why aren’t you taking your meds?”

He whined, moving his torso in an unhappy circle in lieu of rolling his eyes or running away. “I don’t know, Dad. They—” He held his hands out, gesturing with both as if his medication was in front of him, on the table. “They make me feel...I dunno...flat.”

“Okay.” His dad nodded. “Bud, if they don’t make you feel good, we can see if there’s something else you can try.”

“We’ve already tried a bunch,” he grumbled, shifting around to pull his feet up onto the chair and tuck his knees into his chest.

“Then we’ll keep trying until we find the right ones.”

Race shifted yet again, shoving his hands into the center pocket of his gray hoodie, and dropped his head a bit, pressing his mouth against his knees.

About five months after his adoption, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins had started to notice a few less-than-ideal patterns in Race’s behavior and mood. Two months later and he had a nice little handful of proper diagnoses and prescriptions to match. Hypomania honestly wasn’t that bad, most of the time. Swings of mania or depression didn’t last more than a few weeks, or maybe a month or two at the most, and usually it wasn’t anything super out of control. He’d learned to function around it, before he even properly knew what it was. The mood stabilizers were supposed to help even things out, keep him steady. Mostly, they just made him feel apathetic and a little bit suffocated.

“Until then,” his mom slumped down to meet his eyes, “please take your medication. Okay, Tony?”

He grumbled a tiny bit more, but nodded.

Mr. Higgins lightly clapped his hands together. “Well, you know the drill. You got detention, so you’re on dish duty.”

Race wailed much more than necessary. “Nooooo! Anything but that!”

“You’ll survive,” his dad chuckled.

“Hear me out.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and putting his hands flat together. He paused a moment for dramatic effect before aiming his hands towards his father and saying, “What if I didn’t?”

“Anthony,” his dad warned, smiling.

He held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just sayin’. Y’never know.”

“Alright, bud,” Mr. Higgins stood up and reached over to ruffle Race’s hair, “that’s enough.”

“We’ll make you an appointment to get your meds looked at,” Mrs. Higgins promised.

Race nodded, going quiet again. He knew they were just trying to help—his parents, the doctors, the therapists, everyone—but he didn’t like it. In fact, he hated it. They had put him on so many different kinds of medication, and the most impact any of them had ever had was the one that he was apparently allergic to, that made him break out in an awful rash. They’d tried a bunch of different therapists, each time saying ‘we’ll find someone who you connect with’. He never did. If nothing worked, why couldn’t they just leave him be?


	5. Sunday in the Church with Elmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race likes church better than therapy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feat. me as Elmer.

Saturday, Race had an intake appointment for yet another new therapist. The last one had refused to see him again after he went off on her for suggesting he be grateful that things weren’t worse than they are. He _ was _ grateful that things weren’t worse than they are, but that didn’t mean his problems weren’t problems, and his pain wasn’t pain. 

His mom sat with him in the waiting room, filling out paperwork. “Try to make this one work, okay, Tony?” she implored.

Race sighed. “I _ do _ try,” he grumbled. “I always try.”

“Well, try again.”

Race cringed a bit. He hated feeling like he was a burden or a problem for Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. He knew they loved him, and he loved them. Five years now, they’d been a real family, but every now and then he became acutely aware that he wasn’t _ really _ their son.

A small, read-headed woman poked her head into the waiting room. “Anthony Higgins?” she said in a thick, nasal, New York drawl.

Race smiled tightly at his mom as he stood. “See you on the other side.” He crossed the waiting room towards the woman. “Hi. Yeah, that’s me.”

“Nice to meet you, sweetie,” she said, leading him into an office with a built in desk and an overstuffed couch. She took a seat in the desk chair, picked up a pad of paper and a pen, and swiveled around to face the couch. “My name’s Hannah. What are your preferred name and pronouns, sweetie?”

He cringed a little at her greeting. Oh boy, assumed intimacy. Granted, Race assumed intimacy with every person he ever interacted with, but it was different coming from a medical professional. He plopped down onto the couch, angling himself into the corner and bending one leg up onto the cushions. “Uh, Tony’s fine.”

He _ actually _ preferred ‘Race’, but again, it was different coming from a professional.

Hannah nodded, writing that down in her notebook. “Pronouns, Tony?”

“Right, yeah. He, him, his, all that.” He was already distracted, looking around her office. There was a nice big window on the wall opposite the door, some prints of landscape photography on the walls, a bookshelf, with the bottom two shelves housing bins of toys. Oh shit, she had a fish tank? Sick.

“Alright then, let’s get started.” Hannah set her pen and paper down in her lap. “You don’t want to be here.”

“Score one for you.” He smiled.

“I’ve worked with a lotta kids and teenagers, Tony. I know when someone doesn’t want to be here. But you’re here, so what do you say we make the best of it?”

Race shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

Hannah nodded. “A little birdie told me you’ve been diagnosed with hypomania, depression, and...post-traumatic stress disorder?”

He smiled tightly, suddenly very interested in a loose thread on the couch. “Smart bird...”

“I got notes from your previous therapists, silly,” she laughed. “Do you want to tell me what that’s all about?”

“Do I have to?” He looked at her flatly.

“No.”

He nodded. “Cool.”

“Is there something you _ do _wanna tell me about?” she asked. “Or do you want to sit in silence for an hour? I get paid either way.”

Race couldn’t help but smile a bit at this. He knew full well that she was just trying to get his guard down, but that didn’t make it any less funny. “I dunno, what do _ you _ wanna talk about?”

“I want to talk about your PTSD, but you nixed that.”

He sighed. As much as he actively wanted to _ not _ talk about his PTSD, he _ had _ promised his mom that he’d try. “Fine. What about it?”

Hannah shrugged slightly. “Can you talk about what happened? It’s fine if you can’t.”

Race hesitated. “Like...all of it? Or just what I remember...?”

Hannah raised her eyebrows. “Can you tell me what you don’t remember?”

“I mean, like, what people told me. After, in the hospital and stuff.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Tell me whatever you want, Tony.”

He sighed, slumping farther into the corner of the couch. “Okay, tragic backstory. I was an accident. No one ever said it, but it’s obvious. My mom...” He winced. It always tasted...wrong...calling her his mom, when all she’d done was give birth to him. “She ran off the second I was out of her, so it was just me and dad. ‘Course I didn’t know then, but they were both just kids, and it was real rough cause dad’s folks thought that he had to handle the consequences on his own or some shit.” He cringed. “Some_ thing_. Sorry.”

Hannah waved her hand dismissively. “You can say ‘shit’. I’m not your mother.”

Race laughed. “Yeah, okay.” Dammit, her trick was working. “When I was about five, Dad and I were in the car—I don’t remember where we were going, just that we were on the highway—and we got in an accident with a semi. I dunno what really even happened, but the whole front of the car was just...not a car anymore...” He trailed off, staring into the middle-distance.

“Tony,” Hannah said gently, “you don’t have to go into detail if it hurts.”

He swallowed, blinking hard. His voice was light, and casual, but shook for a moment. “Anyway, Dad was dead right off, and I got messed up pretty bad. I honestly don’t remember it that much. Got some pretty cool scars though.” He laughed, but the accompanying smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Hannah nodded. “I can see why that would stick with you.”

Race shrugged, sort of folding in on himself.

“What sorts of things bother you, now?” Hannah asked.

“Well, I’m not a fan of talking about it.” He smiled tightly, avoiding her gaze.

“Let’s talk about something else, then.”

“Okay.” Race curled tighter, pulling both legs up onto the couch and hugging his knees. He rested his chin on his knees, and continued staring into nothing.

Hannah pressed her lips together and lightly tapped her pen against her notebook. “What do you like to do for fun, Tony?”

It took him a second to answer, and he was still very quiet when he did. “I dance...”

“What kind of dance?”

He shrugged. “Buncha kinds.”

“Yeah? What’s that like?”

“It’s good.”

But Race was still thinking about the accident. When he thought about that day, about what had happened to his father and to him, he always tried to detach himself—keep a glass wall between it and him, so he could see, but couldn’t touch. Sometimes it worked, or sometimes he detached a bit too much. Other times, it didn’t work at all, and he ended up on the floor in the shower, or sobbing in Mrs. Higgins’ lap like a baby. Today, in front of this new audience, thankfully, Race just felt numb. Free floating. He hadn’t even finished the story, no details or anything, but even the glossed over bullet points he had offered were enough to trip him up and send a flurry of unwanted thoughts his way. What he had told Hannah was true; he _ didn’t _ remember most of it. Not clearly, anyway. He remembered his dad singing along to an Elton John song and making faces at him in the rear view mirror. He remembered how loud it was—that horrible screeching of metal. God...it was so loud...He remembered everything being very bright and confusing. There were flashing lights and people yelling. It was all so fuzzy, so blurred, but it burned in his mind like a brand.

“Tony? Hey, are you with me, Tony?”

It took him a second, but he pulled his gaze out of the ether, and towards Hannah. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied automatically.

Hannah nodded. “So, dancing—you enjoy that?”

Race cleared his throat, shifting around a bit on the couch. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’s great.”

Hannah waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. He wasn’t being spiteful or difficult on purpose. Race just didn’t understand the point of this whole thing. Dredging up the past just made it hurt again, it didn’t help anything, and what would talking about his hobbies do? He already knew that he liked dance and that it helped him cope.

Soon, Hannah relented. She wrote something down in her notebook. “So Rachel Higgins—she’s your adoptive mother?”

Race nodded.

“How would you describe your relationship with her?”

“She’s the best mom you could ask for,” he replied, without hesitation.

Hannah smiled. “Oh, that’s excellent. Do you have an adoptive father, or another mother, or is it just Rachel?”

He nodded. “Dad, yeah. Her husband. He’s great, too.”

Hannah asked a couple more questions about his adoptive family, and Race provided short, not particularly revealing answers. He had given her the crash; that counted as trying. Race was rather good at dodging questions and diverting attention, but Hannah was a formidable opponent. When the session ended, he found that he liked her more than he had intended to, but still didn’t see a point to all this. Returning to the waiting room, Race offered his mom a not entirely convincing smile. He was still a bit off, as one always is when diving into past trauma, and after delivering a half-hearted report of how the appointment went, he fell into a heavy, hollow silence for the rest of the way home.

* * *

“Tony, it’s time to get up!” Mrs. Higgins called up the stairs.

Race groaned, rolling into his stomach to press his face into his pillow. He tilted his head so he could squint at the clock on top of his dresser. Eight-thirteen. He groaned louder and stuffed his face back into the pillow. Two minutes later, his alarm went off, and in response he moved to shove his head under his pillow instead.

“Tony, come on! Breakfast is ready!”

With yet another groan, Race rolled out of bed, thudding onto the floor in a tangle of blankets and sheets. He got up, and kicked at the bedding to get it back up off the floor before heading downstairs.

Every Sunday morning, Mr. Higgins made breakfast—pancakes, waffles, omelets, French toast, biscuits and gravy, you name it. He never made the same thing twice in a row, and it was always incredible. This tradition of Sunday morning breakfast began around the third month of Race living with the Higginses, when they caught on to the fact that bribery was the only way to ensure Race would actually get up before noon on a weekend. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go to church; it was that he didn’t want to be awake.

Today’s bait was scrambled eggs with cheese mixed and cooked with them, turkey sausage—served with maple syrup, of course—and sourdough toast that Mr. Higgins had baked himself during the previous week.

Race walked into the kitchen, footsteps still heavy with sleep, and plunked himself down into one of the tall chairs that skirted the side of the kitchen island.

“Morning, bud.” His father ruffled his hair. “Are you ready to get some Holy Spirit in your heart?”

“I’m ready to get some eggs in my face. Does that count?” Race replied, smiling sleepily.

Mr. Higgins nodded sagely. “My favorite verse—Egg 3:16.”

Race giggled. Just then, Mrs. Higgins came bustling into the kitchen, already dressed and ready to go. She looked at Race and tutted. “You need a haircut, Tony.”

He put his hands on his head protectively. “No, I don’t.”

“Come on, eat your breakfast,” Mr. Higgins said. “We don’t want to be late.”

Race obliged happily, going through his plate—and then a second—at a somewhat alarming rate.

No sooner had his last bite left the plate than his mother had whisked it away to the sink. “Now, hurry up and get dressed, Tony. Wear your nice shoes!”

He nodded, scooting his chair back and getting up. “‘Kay, Mom.” He went upstairs and rooted around a bit to find a pair of dark jeans that didn’t smell terrible. He pulled on a T-shirt and grabbed socks out of the dresser before heading downstairs again to get his shoes out of the hall closet near the front door.

“Tony!” Mrs. Higgins cried out in exasperation.

He paused with his second shoe halfway on. “What?”

“You can’t wear that.”

He blinked, looking down at the shoe in his hands. “But, you said—”

“The shoes are fine,” Mrs. Higgins huffed. “Change your shirt.”

He glanced down at the simple white T-shirt he was wearing, and quietly sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

Wearing one shoe and holding the other, Race clomped back up the stairs and pulled a tan button up out of his closet to throw on over the T-shirt. He slid down the open banister, only minorly stumbling on landing.

“Be careful!” his mother scolded, but his father chuckled.

“I’m fine!” Race insisted, grinning. He sat down on the floor to put his other shoe on.

“Joel, would you go start the car?” Mrs. Higgins asked her husband. “Please and thank you.”

Mr. Higgins nodded and pressed a kiss to her cheek before grabbing his keys off of the little bird-house shaped hook that hung on the wall by the front door and heading towards the garage.

Race finished tying his shoes and stood up. He took a hold of the front of his still open shirt, wiggling it a bit to settle it better over his T-shirt, and cuffed his sleeves up to just below his elbows.

“Am I pretty enough, Momma?” he teased.

Mrs. Higgins smiled. “You are the prettiest boy I have ever seen.” She smoothed down his hair and kissed the top of his head. “Don’t tell your father.”

Race smiled a dazzling and loving smile at his mother before throwing his head back and screaming, “_Dad, I’m prettier than you!_”

“We done knew this, son,” Mr. Higgins called from the garage. “Now, hurry up, or we won’t get there in time for free coffee!”

* * *

Church is better than therapy. This is a fact. Not for any spiritual reason, but simply because you get to chill for an hour while a nice dude in robes gives you life advice, you don’t have to volunteer any personal information, and then you get little bread discs. After church, your parents will say it’s time to go, make sure you’re ready to go, then stand around in the narthex and talk to people for approximately eternity. This is also a fact.

Race had never been to church before the Higginses. The maintenance of personal religious beliefs wasn’t something very high on the priority list of the foster system, and even if it had been, Race didn’t particularly have anything to maintain. Now, he went to church religiously (ha). Church was important to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, so it was important to Race. He wasn’t a particularly devout believer, but it was still interesting stuff to hear and think about. Well, the anti-gay sermon series that had been launched two weeks after Race came out at fifteen hadn’t been that great, but they hadn’t stayed through that very long. As soon as his parents had realized that their son was being ostracized, Mr. Higgins had interrupted the service to give a rather powerful sermon of his own, regarding godly love and forgiveness, and living your life in his image. Then, he almost got into a fist fight with the pastor. So maybe it actually had been kinda great.

The church they moved to was much more accepting and welcomed the whole family with open arms. Race was almost immediately befriended by the pastor’s son, Mr. Higgins joined a bible study group, and Mrs. Higgins quickly slid into a leadership position for events and fundraisers. Every May, the church hosted a formal ‘high tea’, and somehow Race got roped into helping run and serve the event. They put him in charge of getting all the courses plated, served, and cleared in a timely fashion, as well as making sure everyone had a full teapot and sugar bowl on their table at all times. Mrs. Higgins insisted he dress the part, and in an attempt to push back by going overboard, Race suggested they get him a tailcoat to ‘really fit the atmosphere’. Unfortunately, Mrs. Higgins thought this was a great idea, and she got him a pair of wingtip shoes to go along with it. All the little old church ladies thought he was adorable, and Race didn’t really mind. He wasn’t big on dressing up, preferring jeans, T-shirts, hoodies, and ratty sneakers, but it _ was _ fun being in charge of something.

At the moment, Mrs. Higgins was discussing this particular event in depth with an older lady named Margaret. Why they were discussing this in September, Race had absolutely no idea. To where his father had disappeared, he also had no idea. He let out a long-suffering sigh and sat down in one of the chairs by the free coffee, sure his father would end up there eventually.

“You think you’ve got it bad,” a familiar voice piped up, and moments later, the pastor’s son crashed into the chair next to Race’s. “My dad has to stay until everyone else leaves.”

Race snickered. “Hey Elmer.”

“You comin’ to youth group this week?” Elmer asked, kicking his legs over the arm of the chair.

“Of course. Anything for you, pumpkin.”

Elmer snorted. “Right. Well, Buttons said we’re gonna talk about, like, dating and godly relationships, and I can’t sit through that alone.”

“Oh jeez, that sounds like so much fun,” Race snickered. “Don’t forget to leave room for Jesus when you go clubbing, kids.”

“I swear to god, if he starts repping ‘courtship’ or something—”

“Am I even gonna be allowed to participate? If it’s all ‘godly relationships’, clearly I don’t fit,” he teased.

Elmer swatted at him dismissively. “You know we don’t believe in all that crap.”

Race gasped. “You don’t believe in the gays?”

Elmer frowned at him. “The what?”

Race sat forward in his chair, looking at Elmer seriously. “Okay, when a man loves another man very much—”

Elmer nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, there’s a few options from that point, but on the most basic and fundamental levels, one guy will take his dick, and—”

“Tony!”

Ah, _ now _ he had his mother’s attention.

Race clapped both his hands over his mouth, glaring at Elmer, who was struggling not to burst into laughter.

“I didn’t say nothing.” Elmer held his hands up in surrender, smiling like a cherub. “That was all you.”

“You’ll pay for this,” Race hissed before turning his attention to Mrs. Higgins. “I’m sorry mom, Elmer and I were just joking around.”

“That’s not appropriate, Tony,” she said, a look of shock and that type of righteous anger only mothers can fully accomplish struck across her face.

Race winced, almost cowering under her gaze. “I’m sorry. Don’t kill me.”

She shook her head and huffed, then turned back to the lady she was talking to, who was no longer Margaret.

Race immediately began flail-smacking at Elmer as quietly as he could.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Elmer cried. “You are in a house of God!”

Race stopped, whining. “I always get blamed and it’s always your fault!”

“I didn’t make you say anything!”

“Yes, you did—you specifically told me to go on!” he insisted.

“And you could have said whatever you wanted or nothing at all.” Elmer folded his arms. “I didn’t breathe through your vocal chords for you.”

“First,” Race held his finger up, counting, “hot. Second, I was already too far gone!”

Elmer shrugged. “That’s _ your _ fault.”

Race huffed, flopping back in his chair and rolling his eyes again. “And they say _ I’m _ the bad influence.”

Elmer batter a hand at him dismissively. “They don’t know anything.”

Race opened his mouth to retort, but fell silent as his father approached.

“Alright, bud, you ready to head out?”

“Is Mom done?” he replied, looking towards Mrs. Higgins, who had somehow started a conversation with yet another person.

Mr. Higgins chuckled, smiling fondly at his wife, then ruffled Race’s hair. “Come on. If we both go to the car, she’ll follow.”


	6. Step One: Obtain Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Spot work on their project in class. Jack has some news for his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November 1st—Bee and I live very far apart. I am picking them up from the airport in two hours, so brace yourselves: The authors of this monstrosity will be in the same place for the first time since March (read: WELL before we started working on this). Let the shenanigans ensue.
> 
> Please be aware that this chapter includes Race and Spot making completely irreverent references to self-harm and suicide, as dumb teenage boys may be inclined to do.

Monday rolled around, and Race woke up late. After a rushed, sloppy job getting dressed and getting his backpack loaded, he charged out the door with a poptart—still in its wrapper—gripped between his teeth.

Despite already being twenty minutes late, Race still drove at least three miles under the speed limit. He was an  _ extremely _ cautious driver, to the point that his friends—those who didn’t know about the accident—ridiculed him for it. It had taken him years to be able to ride in a car at all without crying the whole time, and unsurprisingly, he had only just learned to drive over the summer, about a year after his peers.

A full forty minutes late, Race careened down the hallway in Duane High, bouncing off of lockers as he rushed to catch the end of his first class. Instead, he rushed right into what seemed to be a short brick wall and crashed to the floor.

“Ow, Christ!” the wall hissed.

“Shit,” Race grumbled, sitting up and rubbing his elbow, which had hit the floor pretty hard on landing. He looked up, and his face fell into one of tired disappointment. Running late wasn’t enough, no sir, he had to run into—literally run into—Spot fuckin’ Conlon. Perfect.

Spot was holding his left wrist with his right hand, grimacing. “Dude, what are you  _ doing _ ?”

“Trying to go to class, what’s it look like?” Race retorted.

Spot pushed himself up using his non-injured wrist. “Ain’t you a little late?”

_ Ain’t you a little short? _ Race bit back the not-at-all-clever gibe, instead just rolling his eyes and standing as well. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“God, you’re such a jackass,” Spot grumbled as he turned and continued down the hall.

“Well excuse the fuck outta me for usin’ your hallway,” Race muttered, adjusting his backpack and turning again towards his classroom.

Not the best start to the morning, but nothing compared to what hit him when he walked into AP Biology.

“You’re going to be working on your projects today, so get with your partners,” Mrs. McNamera instructed.

Race’s eyes widened slightly, and he felt his face turn to clay as he managed to only thinly veil his horror. Oh  _ boy _ , this was gonna be a great week. Spot looked just about as thrilled as Race was as he moved into the desk next to Race’s. He practically threw his backpack onto the floor and slumped into the seat, shooting Race an annoyed glare. Race opened his mouth to let fly with some mean spirited remark, but he paused as he saw Mrs. McNamera looking at them. Instead, he slid his most winning smile onto his face.

“Hey pal, ya ready to work?” he asked in an  _ obviously _ faked chipper voice.

“Oh my god,” Spot muttered under his breath. “Would you actually just die already?”

“Not unless you go first,” Race replied, still beaming.

“Considering it.”

“Well,” he cooed, pulling his laptop and notebook out of his backpack to lay out on his desk. “If you need some handy tips or tricks, I’m your man. Happy to help.”

“Up the river, not across, I know,” Spot said, completely deadpan. “Too much work. I’ll just jump into traffic.”

Race stiffened, twitching slightly. What a piece of work. Jack had told him over the weekend that he and Albert talked to Spot, and as far as they could tell, Spot didn’t know...but goddamn, he kept hitting awful close.

“Not always a sure fire-exit strategy.” Race’s voice had gotten much flatter, and colder, and his hand automatically flitted up to settle on the back of his neck, where, on the left side, a nice jagged scar peeked out of the neck of his T-shirt.

Spot just rolled his eyes.

Mrs. McNamera piped back up, “Does at least one person in each group have a laptop? Good. Use this period to work on your projects however you need, and let me know if you need help.”

“Alright, Spotty, let’s get working.”

Spot sighed heavily and pulled a small notebook labeled “Parent-Offspring Conflict” out of his backpack. “Well, I was doing some research, and it seems like most brood parasites are cuckoos and cowbirds.”

“Don’t forget adopted humans.” Race smiled sweetly. He continued before Spot had a chance to respond. “There’s some interesting counters to all this, though. Y’ever hear about that turtle that like, adopted a baby hippo or whatever? Or the lion with the dachshunds? There was another...” He snapped his fingers. “Oh shit yeah, a tiger momma lost her cubs, and at that same zoo a pig had just died after giving birth, and for god knows what reason, the zoo folks decided to give the pigs to the tiger. They like, sprayed ‘em with tiger pheromones or something and dressed ‘em up in little tiger-print vest things. Mom ate it up—not ate the pigs, she adopted ‘em. Some proper Winnie the Pooh shit right there.”

Spot was sitting up straight by the time Race was done talking. “It’s crazy, right? Like, why would they do that? I mean, the fitness costs of raising kids that aren’t your own are pretty big, so how does that evolve? I was reading this one thing with the cuckoos and these little fairy wrens—”

Race rolled his eyes, wrinkling his nose up in a little snicker. “Jesus, you’re really into this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. So the thing is, the cost of making a mistake and ditching your own kids is greater than the cost of occasionally raising a parasite. At least, that’s the hypothesis.”

Race nodded. “Gotta pass down that sweet, sweet genetic coding.”

“Exactly.”

Race, having typed all this quickly into the open document on his laptop, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “So all that’s plenty interesting, but none of it is a project plan.”

Spot grimaced. “Right.”

“Soooo what are we gonna do about that?”

“Well, let me think...I’ve done a shit load of research, so that’s a start. Want me to type for you? I could cut the crusts off your sandwiches for you, if you like.”

“Wow. Thanks, daddy. That sounds great.” Race grinned at him maliciously.

Spot cringed. “Gross.”

“Yes you are. The first step of healing is recognizing you have a problem. I’m proud of you,” Race replied smoothly, crossing his arms behind his head now, settling in for some good mockery.

“Well, that’s a step ahead of you,” Spot said, shrugging. “So what are we gonna do for the project?”

Race actually laughed a little. ‘Quick witted’ was not a quality he would’ve pinned on Spot, but there they were. “I dunno—we could kidnap a couple birds or something and try to make them a family.”

Spot snorted. “Buy a parakeet from PetSmart and set it on a chicken egg, watch what happens.”

Race began typing up bullet points, snickering.

  * _Obtain bird (parakeet?)_
  * _ Get eggs_
  * _ Put bird on eggs_

“We’ll have to find a farm to raid. Grocery store eggs probably won’t cut it.”

Mrs. McNamera stopped by their desks, looking at them suspiciously. “How are you boys doing?”

Race smiled at her sincerely. “We’ve decided to rob a farm.”

Spot burst out laughing and slammed his head into his notebook.

Mrs. McNamera blinked. “You what?”

Still smiling as if he were an angel baby swaddled in cloud candy, Race continued. “See, Spot wants to see what would happen if we kidnapped the unborn as a gift for a bird that we don’t have yet.”

“As pleased as I am with your creativity,” Mrs. McNamera said, smiling, “this is really just supposed to be a research project, not an experiment.”

“Aww shucks.”

She chuckled. “Saves us time on IRB approval.”

As Mrs. McNamera moved on to the next group, Spot extracted himself from his notebook. “Okay, what are we going to do?”

Race shrugged, leaning back in his chair again. “I dunno, I was pretty set on the chickakeet plan.”

“You’re useless,” Spot said, though his tone held considerably less malice than it might have, had he said the same thing a few minutes earlier.

“Well yeah, duh. What, did you forget who you’re talkin’ to?”

“How could I, when you never shut up?” Spot tapped his pen on the desk. “Anyway, we’re trying to apply this stuff to humans, right?”

Another shrug. “Sure, yeah.”

“Then I guess we should just look at the data that’s out there and hypothesize,” Spot suggested.

“You got anything in mind?”

“Do you?”

Race huffed. The obvious solution was, well, himself. As bullshit as it was, he wanted a good grade on this project, so that meant effort. He could avoid the tragic backstory part, and still be able to go into what it was like being in a blended family. Pursing his lips in thought for a moment before answering, he offered begrudgingly, “Hadn’t you said something about interviewing blended families or some shit?”

“Eh,” Spot waved as if physically brushing the idea out of the air. “I mean, I like it in theory, but Jack Kelly’s the only person I know who’s adopted.”

Race frowned, eyes snapping to Spot suspiciously. Albert and Jack had said he didn’t know about the tragic backstory, but up to this point Race had been sure that Spot  _ at least _ knew he was adopted. Why would he have been so awful in Starbucks, otherwise? Zeroing in on blended families and ‘real’ parents…it couldn’t have been a coincidence...could it...?

“You sure he’s the only one?” Race asked, testing the waters for treachery.

“That I know of,” Spot responded, shrugging. “I guess we could ask around.”

He sounded pretty sincere. Race was honestly surprised. Of all the things for him to unintentionally strike on...

“You’re uh, you’re a little off target with that estimate.”

“Yeah?” Spot glanced up from his notebook. “You know more?”

Race snorted, bitterly amused. Spot had been such a dick...but it was starting to seem like it hadn’t been on purpose. “You could put it that way.”

“Dude, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Race groaned, slumping further in his chair. “Me, it’s me, ya dumbass,” he said, sentence quieting to a grumble as it progressed.

Spot blinked. “You—...” He shook his head. “ _ You? _ ”

Race huffed, stuffing his hands into the center pocket of his hoodie, and staring resolutely at his desk. “What, you deaf all of a sudden?”

Spot let out a string of indignant syllables. “Were you just gonna let me go on about this without telling me?”

“I thought you knew!”

“How on Earth was I supposed to know!?”

“Wh—” Race sputtered before he continued, hissing. “You were being so specifically a dick this whole time! Suggesting parent-offspring conflict, going on about ‘real’ parents and how blended families don’t count, fucking brood parasites?”

“Well, I might have been more fucking sensitive if I’d known you  _ were _ one,” Spot hissed back.

Race threw his hands up. “I thought you knew!”

“I repeat, how could I have known?”

He rolled his eyes viciously. “I don’t fucking know, Spot.”

Spot dragged his fingers through his hair. “Well, it’s too late to change topics, so maybe now that you know I wasn’t being an asshole on purpose, you can stop being a pussy and just do the damn project.”

“Great apology, dickwad. Pretty sure you’re still an asshole,” Race replied with a sharp smile and turned back to his laptop to look for articles on parent-offspring conflict theory, trying to find if other people had done this same type of research.

“And you’re an idiot,” Spot grumbled, going through his notebook.

It was going to be a long class, after all.

* * *

”I  _ told _ you he didn’t know,” Jack said, before shoving another marshmallow into his mouth.

“Dude,” Albert interjected, “what are you doing?”

Jack looked Albert dead in the eyes. “Chubby bunny.”

“We haven’t even bought those, yet!”

Race was ignoring them both, still talking as he poked through the shelves on the baking aisle. “You said he didn’t know about the crash. With all his super targeted shit I was  _ sure _ he knew I was adopted.”

Jack murmured something along the lines of “cuhhy wuy” around a mouthful of marshmallows, and Albert snorted.

“What even  _ is _ corn starch?” Race mused as he finally found his prize and pulled a box off the shelf.

Albert began to respond. “It’s corn star—”

“No, shut up, I mean how does it happen?” Race interrupted, dropping the box into the cart next to Jack. “Y’know, it ain’t just ground up corn, ‘cause that’s corn meal. How do they get the ‘starch’?” He pinched at the air with both hands, like a very large and thoughtful lobster who also didn’t understand corn starch.

“How the fuck should I know that?” Albert asked indignantly, while Jack began choking on a marshmallow.

Race thumped Jack right between the shoulder blades a few times, knowing full well that this wasn’t at all helpful. “Well you  _ should _ know. You’re taking AP Bio, after all.”

“About  _ starch? _ ”

Jack spat a wad of spit-covered marshmallow into his own lap. “Fuck.”

Race screwed his face up, looking at the goop in Jack’s lap distastefully. “Y’gotta work on your form there, Jackaboy.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Not everyone has as much practice putting things in their mouth as you, Race.”

Race shrugged, holding his hands up. “Not my fault my skills are widely applicable.”

“Gross.” Albert threw a package of food coloring at Jack’s face.

Jack, who wasn’t paying attention, had begun to say something, and the box hit him square in the mouth. “Fuck, that was my tooth!”

“Well, that’s lesson number one, Jack.” Race leaned on the cart. “You ain’t supposed to use your teeth.”

Jack smacked him, and Race smacked right back, laughing.

Albert, who had won several games of Never Have I Ever against the other two with ‘Never have I ever sucked a dick,’ cringed. “A’ight, what else do we need?”

Race looked at the recipe for edible play dough on his phone. “Uh...coconut oil.”

“We should get sprinkles, too,” Jack suggested.

Race nodded. “Good for architectural integrity.”

“Ooh! They have edible glitter!”

“ _ Shit _ yeah!” Race replied much too loudly.

“Guys...” Jack began, suddenly solemn as he compared two colors of edible glitter which Albert had handed him. “There’s uh...there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

The other two looked at him expectantly.

“I applied to an art school,” he said, choosing a color of glitter and placing it into the cart, handing the other back to Albert.

Race startled a little, and Albert blinked in surprise.

“Oh wait, shit, this is a real thing?” Albert said, more as a statement than a question.

Jack nodded, scratching the back of his head and decidedly not looking at his friends. “Yeah, it’s uh...it’s in Santa Fe.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before Albert spoke. “Well shit, man. That’s awesome, though! Pretty fuckin’ far away, but art school, hell yeah!”

“Settle down; I haven’t been accepted yet,” Jack laughed.

Race pshaw-ed. “Don’t be stupid. You’re gonna be accepted, your art is amazing.”

Jack gave him the side eye. “You’re really okay with this?”

Race twisted his torso around a little, as if he could dodge having to answer. “I’m not super psyched about my best friend—”

“Hey!” Albert interrupted indignantly, but Race ignored him.

“—moving to literally the other side of the country, but art school, man. Ya gotta do it. And I’m sure it’s a damn good school, if you went for one so far away.”

Race wouldn’t admit it, but he  _ hated _ this idea. Losing Jack? He could already tell he wasn’t going to handle that well. Even on opposite sides of the country, they’d still be best friends, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same. No more midnight Wal-Mart runs with Race and Albert seeing who could send Jack flying down the aisle faster in the cart. They wouldn’t be able to be properly involved in each other’s lives. Still, he had to be supportive. Jack’s art was  _ everything _ to him, and Race certainly didn’t want to be so selfish as to try and put himself above Jack’s passion.

“Okay,” Jack said, nodding skeptically.

“Personally, I can’t  _ wait _ to get rid of you,” Albert butted in, and Jack threw a marshmallow at him.

Happy to take the diversion, Race joined, and within seconds a marshmallow war ensued.


	7. How to Have a Threesome With Jesus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Spot interview Jack, and Race and Elmer go to youth group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God bless hip youth pastor Buttons.

On Tuesday, Race and Spot managed to come to an agreement about one thing—they would interview Jack for their paper on Wednesday at lunch, if Jack was willing. Race proceeded to give Jack puppy dog eyes and guilt him about moving to Santa Fe, and Jack reluctantly agreed. Once the bell rang after AP Bio, Race dragged his feet packing his bag up, very much not wanting to walk to the cafeteria with Spot. Unfortunately, Spot waited for him, the asshole.

Eventually, Race decided that packing his bag one pencil at a time was ridiculous, and with a sigh, he swept the rest off his desk and into his bag, then made his way up to the front of the room, where Spot joined him.

“So what’s the plan?” Spot asked.

Race sighed, still heading towards the door. “Interview Jack? I dunno. I promised him a bag of gummy bears if he’ll shut up and be helpful.”

Spot shrugged. “I mean, anything you want to ask him?”

“I’m gonna open with ‘hows it feel to be a parasite?’” he replied with a shit eating grin.

“I don’t think Jack’s a parasite,” Spot said. His expression was stony. “You, on the other hand...”

Race snickered. “You’re sweet.”

He knew he was being antagonistic, and it wasn’t a particularly good idea, but Race, as mentioned before, was a chronic dumbass, and he sometimes had a hard time looking past the lense of what was amusing right then and there.

Spot rolled his eyes. “And you’re insufferable.”

“Yeah but I’m cute,” Race cooed.

He so much expected a snarky retort that he was almost startled when it didn’t come. Race glanced sideways at him, eyebrows lifted in amusement, but before he had a chance to start teasing again, they hit the cafeteria. Race rocked up onto his toes to look over the sea of people, searching for Jack. He found him at a table near the other end of the room, jerked his head to indicate Spot should follow him, and headed towards Jack. Spot trailed behind with his hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, looking like he’d rather eat his own grandmother than be anywhere near Jack and Race.

Jack smiled when he noticed them approaching. “So this is it,” he said, “my big break.”

Race snickered. “You ready to spill your guts for science?”

“Always.”

Spot sat down across the table from Jack. “Mind if I record you?”

Jack’s smile didn’t falter for a second, but it did shift into something a bit more mischievous as he turned to Spot. “Not at all.”

Race smiled wider and sat down as well, sitting closer to Jack than Spot. He pulled out his laptop, opening up the Google Doc. “Alright, let’s get this rodeo on the go-deo.”

Jack straight up slapped him in the face. Not hard, but very intentionally.

“Whaaaaat?” Race whined. “That was good!”

“No, it wasn’t,” Spot and Jack said in unison.

Race pouted. “You guys just don’t appreciate good comedy.”

Spot rolled his eyes hard and started recording on his phone. “So Jack, tell us about your experience being adopted.”

“Well, the headmaster called me into the office, and Medda signed some papers, and boom.”

“Medda’s your mom?”

Jack nodded, and Race cut in, “The greatest star in the Bowery, today.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “She’s the theatre teacher here. You might know her.”

“Oh, okay, that’s cool,” Spot said. “How old were you? Did you know her, before she adopted you?”

“I was, uhhh, about eight?” Jack mused, looking at Race as if he should know the answer.

The blond boy nodded. “That sounds right.”

Jack nodded in affirmation. “Right, I was eight.” He yawned. “As for knowing her, not really. She came to the shelter and visited with a couple different kids for a few months. Then, she picked me, ‘cause I’m the prettiest.”

Spot blinked. “Right...”

Race snickered before pulling a very serious and very fake expression onto his face. “So Jack, what have you noticed that’s different about your relationship with your mom, compared to other kids with  _ real _ moms?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Spot sighed.

“Whaaat? It’s a legitimate question! Isn’t comparing the two literally the whole point?”

Spot just groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“Fine, what do  _ you _ want to ask him, Mr. Grumpy Pants?” Race huffed, crossing his arms.

Spot looked back at Jack. “Did you ever know your biological parents?”

Jack shook his head. “Nope. I’m a one night stand baby, and my mother died in childbirth.”

“Were you in a group home or foster care?”

“Both, I guess? I stayed with a couple families, but mostly I was at the home.”

“How did you feel about getting adopted?”

“Are you kidding, man? It was great. I felt like a cuckoo who had just found a nest of fairy wrens,” Jack replied, grinning, as Race tried to stifle his giggles.

Spot glared at Race. “Is that so?”

Race shrugged and squinched up his face, silently muttering nonsense in that ‘don’t look at me I don’t know what’s going on’ way.

Spot snarled at him and continued the interview. “Did you feel like your relationship with your mother was different? Like, compared to your friends’ relationships with their mothers.”

“I think mine was louder.”

Race nodded, taking notes as if this was the most serious and fascinating thing he’d ever heard.

Spot actually chuckled. “Right. But other than that...?”

Jack shrugged. “I was a bit of an ass and called her ‘Medda’ for the first month, ‘stead of ‘mom’.”

“But you call her ‘mom,’ now?”

“Most of the time, yeah.”

Throughout all this, Race had slowly devolved from typing almost as quickly as the other two were speaking, to slowly and pointedly hitting one key at a time. He groaned loudly. “This is  _ boring. _ ”

“Well, what do  _ you _ want to know, Race?” Spot snapped. “By all means, ask away.”

“Psh, I already know everything. I’m a parasite too, remember?”

“You’re a parasite, period.  _ Jack’s _ adopted.”

At that, Jack snickered.

Race rolled his eyes theatrically. “Fine, keep asking your questions.”

* * *

After lunch, Race tried to flee the dining hall as fast as possible, but Spot managed to catch up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Spot asked. “You know you’re getting graded on this, too, right?”

Race gave him a very mild ‘you’re crazy’ look. “Yeah, I know?”

“Then why don’t you put in some actual effort instead of just trying to fuck with me? I know you hate the project. I know. I get it.” Spot planted himself in front of Race to keep him from walking any further. “Is it really worth throwing this class, for you?”

Race stopped short. “Who says I’m throwing the class? Relax, the semester’s barely started.”

“Yeah, s’easy for you to say, ain’t it?” Spot muttered. “Just, please, take it fucking seriously.” He darted around Race and took off down the hall before Race could say another word.

With a heavy eye roll, Race continued to his next class.

* * *

Wednesday night was youth group, so after dipping home for a quick dinner and half of his homework, Race drove to the church. He was an even more cautious driver in the twilight and the dark than he was in the daytime, almost to the point of ridiculousness. He parked in the lot and headed inside, looking around for Elmer once he reached the narthex. Youth group started at seven, but people always got there early to mill around and socialize, so there was a good crowd.

“Hey, Racer!” The voice came from behind him, and in a moment, he was joined by his youth pastor. “Good to see you, man,” Buttons said, clapping him on the shoulder and grinning.

Race shot back an equally bright smile. “Heya, Buttons. What’s up?”

“Well, Racer, I’m really excited to start this new series. Did Elmer tell you about it?”

“‘Godly dating’ or somethin’, right?”

“That’s right.” Buttons beamed. “I just think it’s so important at your age, when dating and relationships are weighing so heavily on your mind, to learn how to put God at the center of it all.”

Race tried to bite down a giggle. “Honestly, all that’s heavy on my mind right now is a crunch wrap supreme.”

Buttons laughed and patted Race on the shoulder before wading further into the small crowd of teenagers that filled the narthex. Jessie McGee was a great guy, with a ridiculous name. When he came on as the new youth pastor, everyone loved him right away. On his first day, he had accidentally buttoned his shirt wrong—off by one, so it was all lopsided—and, because children are the worst, everyone started calling him ‘Buttons’. It stuck like glue, and he took to it right away. It fit, somehow.

“Alright, alright!” he shouted above the throng. “Let’s head to the basement and get this party started!”

There was a spattering of giggles and a few affirming whoops as the herd of teenagers pushed and shuffled towards the double doors that led downstairs. Race scanned the crowd as they went, searching for Elmer. Elmer found him first, sneaking up on him from behind and tossing an arm over his shoulder.

“Hey, hey,” he said. There was something in his mouth. It appeared to be a Jolly Rancher.

Race pretended to punch him in the stomach—a common greeting. “Hey, what’s up?”

“‘Bout to learn how to have a threesome with Jesus, same as you.”

“How long d’you think before this spirals into very careful and polite sex ed?”

“Zero seconds.”

Race took a second to jump and slap the top of the door frame as they walked through. “Think he brought a bowl of brightly colored free condoms, or are we going the ‘safe sex is no sex’ route?”

Elmer chuckled. “Five bucks he calls it ‘knowing someone in a Biblical way’ and talks about safe alternatives to intercourse.”

“God bless Pastor Buttons.”

They sat down on one of the battered pleather couches in the youth room. Elmer kicked one ankle over his knee and leaned back, tossing his arm back over Race’s shoulders as he did. Race turned his back a little towards Elmer, leaning against his side and tossing his legs up over the arm of the couch. In pretty much all of his social circles, Race had a bit of a reputation for being a total slut, but really, he was just very openly affectionate with pretty much anyone who would let him. That’s not to say he wasn’t at least a little bit of a slut, just not as much as most people thought. Elmer, as it so happened, was into girls almost exclusively, though it wasn’t uncommon for newcomers to think he was Race’s boyfriend. He often referred to Race as his ‘sidekick,’ which often turned into a lively debate about who was the hero and who was the sidekick.

The rest of the kids trailed into the room, and a general buzz of conversation filled the air. Race felt his phone vibrate, and he pulled it out, rolling his eyes and huffing at the text banner.

“ _ Snack Size Satan: Hey, we should work more on _ …”

Elmer snorted. “‘Snack Size Satan’?”

Race groaned. “Did I ever tell you about the kid who terrorized me in third grade?”

“Mmm, don’t think so.”

“So there was this kid who terrorized me in third grade...” Race went on to explain the Spot Conlon mess, and his inconvenient return.

Elmer nodded thoughtfully as Race told his story. Then, “Well, remember when the two of you decide to resolve all that sexual tension to leave room for Jesus.”

“Why do you think I’m here, man? Gotta learn to do it right.”

“Okay!” Buttons piped up at the front of the room. “Welcome, everybody, to the first youth group of the new school year!” He clapped enthusiastically.

With a spattering of giggles, the rest of the room applauded as well, and Race cast Elmer a look that fondly said ‘what a dork’.

Buttons began, “I want to start out by saying that this is not a purity class. It’s alright, I’m hip, I know kids your age ‘do the do’.”

Oh my god, somebody film this. Almost as soon as Buttons had started talking, Race was biting his tongue to keep from laughing.

“I’m not going to tell you that you’re a sinner. We’re all sinners. That’s not the point. I’m going to talk to you about putting God first in all your relationships, including romantic ones. Now,” Buttons made a ‘calm down’ gesture with his hands, as if most of the youth weren’t staring at him blankly, “I know many of you are saving yourselves for marriage.”

Elmer snorted. Loudly. He clapped a hand over his mouth, and Race grabbed one of the throw pillows on the couch and pushed it on top of Elmer, effectively stifling him.

“Don’t worry, Buttons; I got it!” he called as Elmer flailed and smacked at him.

Buttons cringed. “...Aaaaand some of you aren’t. Like I said, totally fine. Race, don’t kill Elmer. Thank you. Anyway, as I was saying...”

Race relented, allowing Elmer to easily push him off, still snickering.

Buttons launched into a preview of the series, explaining the sort of things they would be talking about. One of the topics was sexual orientation, which Race was  _ not _ looking forward to. He knew the members of this church were much more forgiving and understanding than other churches, but he was still slightly nervous. As far as he knew, no one else in the church was gay, so he would end up either singled out or ignored, and he wasn’t a fan of either possibility.

The rest of the evening—as with most series intro days—wasn’t particularly interesting or even particular important. None of them were going to remember what Buttons had said was happening when, until it happened. After he was done talking, Buttons said it was time for a game, and the room was instantly divided between the kids that hated Buttons’ weird, chaotic, nonsensical games, and the others—specifically Race and Elmer—that loved them. Tonight’s game was an old standby: Half a gallon of water tied to the end of a thick rope, and swung around in a low arc as everyone tried to jump over it. It was sort of like a big circular game of jump rope, except if you missed, the rope would wrap around your ankles and you’d get cracked across the knees be a half full gallon of water. Race loved it.

By about 9 o’clock everyone had cleared out of the church, and after their usual goodbyes full of teasing and mockery and a few punches to the ribs, Race and Elmer parted ways, and headed home.


	8. Like Eating Angel Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot interviews Race for their paper, and Race spends the evening with his dance friends.

Thursday passed without event, and Race spent a good portion of the evening hanging upside down off the couch, playing Luigi’s Mansion 3. He stayed up most of the night, sending Jack and Albert Snapchat updates of his game about once every three minutes. After one-forty-eight, Jack stopped responding, and Albert disappeared at two-twenty-four. This did nothing to deter Race, as he had found a way to film with his feet, so he could still use both hands on the controller. When he realized that he had to be up for school in three hours, Race finally went up to bed, but he still didn’t really sleep; he kept getting distracted by other things to do.

On Friday, in AP Bio, he had trouble focusing on anything other than seeing how many little wads of paper he could flick into Albert’s hood before he noticed. The answer was thirty-five.

He was up and out the door the second the bell rang, hoping to disappear into the crowded cafeteria before Spot could corner him to talk more about their project. Unfortunately, the boy moved with impressive speed for someone with such short legs.

“Hey, what’s our next move?” he asked, infuriatingly casual.

Race rolled his eyes, making the barest attempt to hide it. “I dunno, we got some good material from Jack, so I guess I’m next?”

Spot shrugged. “Sure. I guess I can just do more research—”

Race frowned a little. “What? No,” he scoffed. “I can’t exactly interview myself, can I?”

Spot stammered. “You’re one of the authors of the paper. Just put your stuff in there however you want.”

Race shook his head. “No way; you said interviews.”

Spot held up his hands in surrender.

“So what, you wanna do it now? Or can I go?” Race asked flatly.

In what was clearly an act of pure defiance, Spot squared his shoulders and said, “I wanna do it now.”

Race sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, okay. We goin’ to the cafeteria?”

“Do you want to eat lunch?” Spot scoffed.

“Oh my god.” Race rolled his eyes heavily again, and pushed past Spot, headed towards the cafeteria.

Behind him, Spot grumbled something Race couldn’t hear, but he was sure it was derogatory. He huffed, sending his bangs briefly upwards with a puff of air, and began to walk the tiniest bit faster than his usual, already fast pace. Spot and his dumb, stubby legs would just have to catch up.

As it turned out, much to his chagrin, Spot’s dumb, stubby legs could move quite fast. Spot followed him to a table and sat down across from him. “Alright, do you mind if I record you?” He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever.” Race shrugged, sliding his backpack off his shoulder.

Spot started recording on his phone, glaring at Race all the while. “How old were you when you were adopted?”

“Twelve—Old enough that most folks didn’t want me.”

Spot frowned. “Why do you think that is?”

Race scoffed. “No one wants to adopt a teenager.”

“Yeah, I got that. Why  _ not _ , dumbass?”

“Mostly cause teenagers are dicks.” He looked at Spot pointedly. “Sure, babies are a lotta work, but at least they’s cute.”

Spot smirked. “Teenagers can be cute.”

“Yeah, but you ain’t tryna get a kid. Grown-ups don’t like teenage orphans.”

“Fine.” Spot sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “So you were adopted when you were twelve. What was that like?”

Race crossed his arms and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “The process was shit. Takes a long time for the right folks t’ find ya, if it happens at all.”

Spot nodded.

Race sighed and started messing with his hair. “Most folks are real picky, like the kids are brands a’ peanut butter or somethin’.”

“‘S pretty fucked,” Spot said, surprising him.

Race raised his eyebrows. “...Yeah, yeah it is.”

“Explains a lot,” Spot grumbled under his breath. “Look, you were here for Jack’s interview. You know the kinda shit I’m gonna ask. Can’t you just—”

“Absolutely not!” Race said, much louder than necessary. “It ain’t an interview if I don’t get interviewed, and it wouldn’t count.”

Spot growled, and if Race was being totally honest, it was pretty hot. “Insufferable shit.”

“Thanks for noticing.” He shot a wink at Spot, pursing his lips briefly—not quite blowing a kiss.

Spot faltered briefly, and Race took a moment to bask in his victory.

“Fine,” Spot spat like a curse. “Did you notice any differences between your relationship with your parents, compared to your friends’ with theirs?”

Race snickered before replying. “Honestly, I think mine’s better.”

“Oh yeah?”

He shrugged. “I mean, it makes sense—mine picked me. Others is just stuck with whatever they got.”

Spot chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, we are, aren’t we?”

“Sucks to suck,” Race snickered, choosing to ignore Spot’s change in demeanor.

“Okay, how about this.” Spot leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. “Tell me anything about your life that you think would be useful for our paper.”

“Spotty, that ain’t how an interview works. Jesus, you’d make a lousy reporter.” As the project progressed, Race had discovered that pissing off Spot Conlon was not only very easy, but also very fun. Calling him ‘Spotty’ was just one way.

Spot dragged his hand through his hair. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Race replied blithely.

“You may not give a shit how this project turns out,” Spot accused, increasingly angry as he went, “but I do. I give a shit. I give a shit about this project, I give a shit about my future, what I absolutely don’t give a shit about is you and your stupid games, so would you please get a fucking grip!?”

After a moment of stunned surprise, Race laughed. “Dude, relax. The semester ain’t even half over yet; we got forever.”

“Oh, you’re a last minute kind of guy?”

“Well, yeah. Why spend time on something I don’t need or want to?”

It was a well known fact that Anthony ‘Bet how many nickels I can fit in my mouth at once’ Higgins was an idiot. It was a rather less well known fact that Anthony ‘Never below a 98% on an exam’ Higgins was brilliant. Academically, he was a perfect student, but behaviorally, he was a terror. Being a very egocentric person, Race sometimes forgot that people put real effort into school. He didn’t ever mean to be an ass about it, it just came naturally.

Spot sneered and shook his head, as though he couldn’t believe such a vile creature as Race could exist. “Fine,” he spat again. “I’ll do the damn thing myself.”

“Whatever you want, chief.” Race laid his head on his crossed arms, still resting on the table, and closed his eyes. “‘T ain’t gonna be that good, with just you. You’d do better waitin’ and workin’ with me.” He yawned. “Not that I want to work with you—I don’t—I’m just sayin’ we’d get a better grade.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Spot snapped, getting up to leave.

“Just let me know when you get stuck, and I can fix it.” Race chirped to the retreating back of Spot Conlon, in his best ‘wholesome cool mom’ voice.

Spot flipped him off over his shoulder.

* * *

After the track meeting at school, Race hurried to the dance studio, pulling up barely before class. Tonight was barre, then jazz. Race headed to the bathroom to change out of his school clothes, and then moved to the main studio. He smiled as he locked eyes on a small group that was stretching out in the corner, then headed over.

“Hey, guys,” Race greeted the trio, and they all returned grins and various greetings.

There wasn’t exactly an excess of boys in dance class, so they tended to band together—the others for the support, Race because he was gay as hell and if he spent a little too long checking them out what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them...and, if they totally knew and didn’t say anything, what Race didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him either. Tommy Boy had been dancing the longest out of any of them, and it absolutely showed; the kid could practically fly. Race had been training barely five years, and he was already irritatingly good, so he and Tommy Boy had a bit of a friendly rivalry. Finch and Jojo constantly gave him shit for having such a natural aptitude.

Tonight, they were locked in an intense debate about what color went best with Finch’s eyes, and Race couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that he was the only gay one (Jojo had a bit of a bi streak, but he didn’t seem to notice, and Race wasn’t about to bring it up).

“No, you’re wrong,” Race insisted. “Light gray is for blue eyes, not brown.”

“Well then, what’s for brown?” Jojo asked, flopping his head into Tommy Boy’s lap while Tommy Boy was trying to do a butterfly stretch.

“Green, gold, cream,” Race began counting off on his fingers, as he kicked his leg up and rested his ankle on the barre to stretch.

“You’re so gay,” Tommy Boy said fondly, even as he absentmindedly petted Jojo’s hair.

“You love it,” Race shot back, blowing a kiss before turning his attention to the subject of their dispute. “Finch, c’mere, you’re taller than the barre.”

Finch did as he was told, rolling his eyes. “So, I oughta go around in a Packers jersey, is what you’re saying.”

Race transferred his leg up to use Finch’s shoulder, which yielded a deeper stretch. “I don’t know sports, you know that.”

“Green and gold,” Tommy Boy explained.

Race nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Ms. Susan entered the room then to start the lesson, and the four boys snapped to attention. After 50 minutes of barre work, and another 25 of combinations on the floor, Ms. Susan dismissed the class, praising their efforts of the evening. She was shockingly kind and understanding, for a ballet teacher—not wasp-ish at all. Jazz would start in 10 minutes, so Race sat down to catch his breath and get a drink. “You guys stayin’ for jazz?” he asked the other boys.

“Duh,” Tommy Boy snorted, crashing to the floor next to him.

“Nice.” Race offered Jojo his water bottle, knowing he almost always forgot to bring his own. As usual, Jojo drank about half of it before handing It back to Race. The four boys sat in a happy pile on the floor, chattering about nothing in particular until the next class started.

After jazz, they decided they wanted food. Jojo offered to drive, but his car was 90% rust, and no one trusted it. Race wasn’t a fan of driving with a lot of passengers, and Tommy Boy was only fifteen, so he didn’t have his license yet. As such, they all piled into Finch’s car and headed to iHop. Race, Finch, and Tommy Boy discovered with horror that Jojo had never been to an iHop.

“What the hell is a ‘Rooty Tooty Fresh & Fruity?’” Jojo laughed borderline hysterically as he looked over the menu.

“Exactly what it sounds like, stupid!” Race retorted, reaching for the bowl full of creamers that had come with Finch’s coffee.

“Race, don’t—” Finch groaned, but it was too late; Race had already knocked back his first shot of half & half.

Finch groaned, and Race reached for another. “What? They stack better when they’re empty. Plus it’s good, like sweet milk.”

“Please don’t ever say ‘sweet milk’ again.”

“What?” Tommy Boy scoffed. “We all know Race is into that.”

Jojo nodded sagely. “We done knew.”

“Don’t be such a prude, Finch,” Race snickered, extending the creamer in his hand towards Finch’s face. “Try some.”

“I don’t want your sweet milk, Race.”

“Oh come ooon,” he coaxed, pressing the lip of the tiny plastic cup against Finch’s resolutely closed mouth.

Finch shook his head. “Mm-mm.”

“But Finch, my sweet milk tastes so good.”

Tommy Boy and Jojo groaned, laughing.

Finch sat as far back as he could. “How would you even  _ know? _ ”

Race took this opportunity to jerk his wrist forward, attempting to launch the contents of the half and half cup into Finch’s momentarily open mouth. It did not work at all. Instead, the front of Finch’s shirt got splashed with half & half, and Finch let out a long-suffering sigh.

Race pouted. “See, that’s what happens. Now you’re all messy.”

“I’m pretty sure that counts as assault in several states,” Finch said, rubbing his shirt with a napkin.

“Is New York one of ‘em?”

“I don’t know, let’s call the cops and find out.”

Race giggled, and Jojo cringed. “Don’t encourage him, Finch.”

“I’m not encouraging!”

“Yes, you are!” Jojo admonished, smacking Race’s phone out of his hands as he punched in a nine and then a one.

“Why don’t I ever see any of you in school?” Tommy Boy asked in a complete change of subject. “I mean, I know Race is always attached to Jack Kelly or Albert DaSilva or that short guy with the dog name.”

Race groaned, slumping in his seat at the mention of Spot Conlon. “It ain’t my fault I caught the plague.”

“Could be worse.” Jojo shrugged. “He could be ugly, or at least not hot.”

Ah, yes—the bi streak.

Race sighed, stretching his conveniently long legs out under the table to gently kick at Tommy Boy. “Yeah, I guess. He’s such a  _ dick _ though.”

Finch smirked. “I thought you liked dick.”

Race mimed an exaggerated repetition of Finch’s words, and stuck his tongue out at him.

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Tommy Boy went on, “we all go to Duane High, so why don’t I ever see you?”

“We’re too cool to be seen with a dumb sophomore,” Finch joked.

Jojo shrugged. “I guess we just have opposite schedules.”

Race was too busy trying to pull Tommy Boy’s shoe off with his feet to answer.

Tommy Boy threw a packet of sweet milk at Finch. “Asshole.”

“Hey!” Finch yelped, grabbing the still sealed cup from the seat of the booth, where it had ricocheted off his chest, and threw it back.

Tommy Boy snickered, and Race finally gave up trying to get his shoe. Instead, he began to make a small puddle on the table, moving water from his glass, a straw-full at a time.

“Race, what the hell are you doing?” Jojo sighed.

“Haven’t you ever done straw wrapper races?” he replied, very focused on his work, which was now folding the paper wrapper of his straw like an accordion.

“You’re a barbarian, I swear.”

Race shook his head, and set the now well folded straw wrapper aside before he grabbed the other wrappers on the table, and did the same. “Nah I’m brilliant.”

“You’re something,” Finch conceded.

The waitress came to take their food order. Jojo ordered the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity, for which the other boys relentlessly mocked him. Race ordered the Italian Cannoli Pancakes, along with a spicy poblano omelette, and two orders of onion rings. Tommy Boy simply ordered a breakfast sampler, and Finch got a burger.

“Who the fuck gets a burger at iHop?” Tommy Boy lamented, and Finch shut him up with a smack to the back of the head.

“At least he didn’t get a crepe,” Jojo chuckled.

“Don’t diss the crepes.” Finch held up his index finger to hold his friends’ attention. “The banana Nutella crepes are like eating angel flesh.”

Jojo choked on his soda. “Angel flesh?”

“Whaaat? If Race can eat Jesus, I can eat an angel.”

Race scoffed. “Y’can’t eat an angel; lots of them are just holy fire, swords, and rings.”

“Okay, what’s Jesus, then?”

“Oh, that’s easy—a normal, totally human dude but also all powerful god at the same time plus also god’s son,” Race explained. “Totally edible.”

Tommy Boy slammed his hands on the table. “Then is it cannibalism or not!?”

“Both,” Race assured him. “Through Jesus, our lord and savior, anything is possible.”

“Can he make me fly?” Finch asked. “I wanna fly.”

“Well Finch, you’re just gonna have to pray about it. Maybe you aren’t praying hard enough.”

“I’m not praying at all.”

“The only thing  _ I’m _ praying for,” Jojo cut in, “is my Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity. I’m going to starve to death here in this booth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a real iHop trip!


	9. The Great Bird Heist of 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Jack go left.

“If you think about it, most dust is human skin flakes. Therefore, roombas are carnivorous robots, and one day the dust won’t be enough to satiate them anymore, so they’ll rise up, and destroy us all.”

Hannah was staring at Race, eyebrows knit together and mouth twisted in an all too familiar expression of baffled concern. “That’s interesting, Tony, but how about we go back to discussing your childhood?”

Race held up a finger, halting her. “One sec.” He shifted, comfortably lounging across the overstuffed couch in a very relaxed mockery of the traditional ‘person in therapy on a couch’ stance.

“How’s school, Tony?” Hannah asked loudly.

Race stumbled to a stop, halfway through saying why he thought Furbys would be the ultimate soldier, and looked over at her. “Uh, fine, I guess?”

“School’s pretty important, at your age.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Hannah, as Race was quickly discovering, was nothing if not persistent. No matter how many vague non-answers he gave or tangents he went on, she didn’t give up.

“School?” he scoffed. “Mostly it just wastes time. I get in trouble a lot, and the prince of Hell’s little brother is my project partner.”

Hannah sputtered. “The what?”

“The prince of Hell’s little brother,” Race repeated nonchalantly.

“Okay.” She nodded. “Tell me about...the prince of Hell’s little brother.”

Race sighed, flopping dramatically. “So I’m super gay, right?”

“Not gonna lie, I guessed as soon as you walked in the door.”

He grinned, shooting a single finger gun in her direction with a wink. “Well, Spot Conlon’s a homophobic douche, and his way of handling that in third grade was breaking my nose. Anyway, he moved away not long after that, but he’s back. Showed up on the first day of school, and we got assigned as partners for the semester project in AP Biology. So _ that’s _ great.”

“Does he still bully you for being gay?”

“He hasn’t been that specific, but Albert says he called me an ‘obnoxious little faggot’.” Shrug number five. “He’s still a giant dick wad, just in general.”

“Well,” Hannah said, “some people are just dick wads. What can you do?”

“Al suggested we drag him out back and throw him in the dumpster by the kitchen door.”

“I would advise against that.”

Race nodded. “Yeah, not the best idea. But he’s just such an _ ass _. Keeps talking shit, and just being impossible. That ain’t even the worst part though.” He scowled, scrunching his face up in distaste.

Hannah took the bait. “What’s the worst part?”

Race whined. “He’s _ so _ hot.”

Hannah sputtered into a laugh.

Race frowned more, crossing his arms and shoving himself into the corner of the couch. “I know, it’s ridiculous.”

“So, this very attractive, very unpleasant boy—he’s causing problems?” Hannah asked, tapping her pencil against her pad of paper.

Race nodded. “Yeah. Got detention for having a shouting match in front of a teacher, and he’s making the project just awful. _ Somehow _ coincidentally, he suggested we do parent-offspring conflict, specifically regarding blended families.” He wrung his hands unhappily. “And he’s _ hot _.”

Hannah nodded understandingly.

“No, you’re not hearing me.” Race shook his head certainly. “He’s _ really _ hot.”

“I’m hearing you, Tony.”

The boy flopped across the couch again. “It’s not _ fair _. He’s literally the worst, why does he have to be gorgeous, too?”

“I don’t know, but I’m about to have to let you go, and before I do that, I want to talk about your medication.” Hannah leaned forward and flipped through some of her notes. “I have here that you’ve tried Risperdal, lithium, and Depakene?”

Race nodded.

“And you recently switched to something new, or you are about to—is that correct?”

Another nod. “Some mood stabilizer that starts with an ‘L’.”

“Lamictal, perhaps?”

“That’s the bitch.” Race snapped his fingers in recognition.

Hannah smiled. “How’s that working for you?”

He wriggled uncomfortably. “It makes me feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

“All,” he gestured aimlessly in front of him. “I dunno, squished? I’ve been feeling pretty good lately, though.”

Hannah eyed him suspiciously. “Good.”

“Yeah,” he paused, not really knowing if he was supposed to elaborate or not.

“Well,” she smiled tightly, “I’ll see you next Saturday, Tony”

* * *

Halfway home, Race made a snap decision, and turned down the road that led to another road that led to Jack’s house. He pulled into the driveway and quickly shot a text to his mom after putting the car in park.

“_ I’m gonna hang with Jack for a bit. Don’t wait up on dinner, we’ll probably get pizza or something. _” He added a heart emoji and hit send.

Race got out of the car and went up to the front porch, snapping a twig off one of the bushes out front on his way. He used the twig to press the doorbell, and waited, absently picking at the bark.

A bright-eyed boy on a crutch answered the door. “Hi, Race.”

Race grinned. “Hey Charlie, how’s it going?”

Charlie was Jack’s twelve-year-old brother, also adopted, generally a ray of sunshine. “Good. You want Jack?”

He nodded. “He home?”

“Yeah.” Charlie turned around in the doorway, and shouted back into the house. “Hey, Jack! Race is here!”

Race stepped inside after him and gently pushed the door closed with his foot. He found himself once again thinking how he and Jack had both won the lottery, adoption wise. For Race, he had as close as it gets to a real life Hallmark Holiday Movie family, and for Jack, it was a bit more literal—Medda was rich as _ hell _. Teaching theater at Duane High wasn't a particularly lucrative job, but owning and running a theater in town certainly was. Of course, it wasn’t just having money; Charlie, who had been adopted a year or so before Jack, basically worshiped him, and Medda was amazing, and she certainly loved Jack.

He and Race had talked about it a few times—the culture shock of being a penniless orphan suddenly dropped into the lap of lavish luxury. You’d never guess, to look at him, that Jack was now part of a very wealthy family. He was always very hesitant to use Medda’s money for anything other than necessities and basic amusements, for fear of her feeling taken advantage of. Of course she never did, but Jack still worried.

After a moment, Jack came down the stairs and greeted Race with a nod. “What’s up?”

Race jerked his head in greeting as well. “Hey, you doin’ anything?”

“Uhh, no. Why?” Jack stepped over and put his arm around Charlie’s shoulders.

Race shrugged. “I’m bored, and therapy is dumb.”

“I think therapy’s pretty great, actually.” Jack shrugged as well. “So...you wanna hang out here, or...?”

Another shrug. “Up to you, I don’t care.”

Jack rolled his eyes and called towards the living room, “Ma, I’m going to hang with Race. I’ll be back in a bit!”

“You boys stay out of trouble,” Medda called from out of sight, and Race grinned, reaching back to open the door again.

Jack followed him to his car. “Where we goin’, then?”

“Uhhh, I didn’t plan that far ahead. Pick a direction?”

“Left,” Jack said, climbing into the passenger’s seat.

Race nodded as he buckled himself in. “Left it is.”

He placed a hand on the back of the passenger seat, twisting to look where he was going as he backed the car out of the driveway. Facing forward again, he shifted into drive, and off they went, left.

* * *

After driving for two hours, alternating between talking about therapy and very loudly singing along with old 70s and 80s music, Race had pulled into the parking lot of a suspiciously outdated looking Pizza Hut, with an equally ancient Dairy Queen next door.

They went inside and got a table. Race quickly ordered a limited time only stuffed Cheez-It pizza, a Pepsi, and of course, access to the unlimited salad bar.

“I don’t understand how you can eat like a motherfucking dinosaur and still be a twig,” Jack lamented, gnawing on a slice of normal, boring, meat-lovers’ pizza.

Race shrugged, carefully lowering his plate—piled well past the point of overflowing with a salad that was mostly croutons, olives, and hot peppers—to the table. “Jesus loves me, this I know, for I can eat twelve times my weight in Doritos and still lose two pounds in the same week.”

Jack gaped. “What?”

Race snickered, and popped a pepper into his mouth. “‘S a pretty straightforward sentence, Jackaboy.”

“I swear to god, you’re a fae changeling.”

Race pouted at the battered, laminated menu still on the table. “I shoulda gotten garlic knots.”

“Do the words ‘clogged arteries’ and ‘premature death’ mean anything to you?” Jack asked, his voice muffled by a mouthful of stuffed crust.

Race shook his head. “No, I eat vegetables.” He gestured to his heaping plate.

“That is a mountain of croutons on top of a piece of lettuce.”

“Is not!” Race retorted squeakily, grabbing an olive to throw at Jack.

Jack acted quickly and caught it in his mouth. “Thanks.”

Race stuck his tongue out at him before grabbing a piece of pizza.

* * *

After thirty minutes, and four trips to the salad bar, the boys paid their bill, and headed back to the car.

“I’ve had an idea,” Race announced, about twenty-seven minutes into the drive.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Race nodded, flipping on his turn signal. “So, Spot Conlon as a project partner is worse than chewing on a lightbulb, right?”

“Right.”

“And he keeps going on about birds and brood parasites, right?” A grin was beginning to crawl onto Race’s face.

“Race...” Jack began tentatively, “where is this going?”

Race waved dismissively. “Hang on, I’m not done with the set up. And ya know how I’m real good at busting the locks on our school lockers?”

Jack sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well,” Race drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as an all too familiar and all too dangerous shit eating grin spread across his face, “what say we go get a bird, and—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—andthenwecanputitinhislockerand come on, Jack, it’ll be so good!” Race finished in a rush.

“I’m pretty sure that’s animal abuse.”

“It would only be for a bit! Birds are in cages all the time, the locker would be bigger!”

“‘S a terrible idea,” Jack protested. “Why are you like this?”

Race pouted. “You’re supposed to be an artist; why can’t you just support my creative visions?”

“Because we both know you’re gonna do what you want, anyway. I have to at least try to be a voice of reason.”

“You know me so well.” Race beamed, slowing the car almost unreasonably early for a nearing stop sign.

* * *

“Race for god's sake!” Jack protested as Race parked in front of the local PetCo. “This is a _ terrible _ idea!”

Race waved dismissively, unbuckling. “Nah, it’ll be great, just trust me.”

Jack groaned and trailed after Race as he bounded into the store. Race made a beeline for the end cap with all the birds, but got distracted in transit by the lizards. Jack leaned in close to look at a little corn snake that was curled up beneath a half-log.

“Crutchie’s getting a pet snake for his birthday,” he said. “Don’t tell him, obviously, but like, he’s wanted one forever. ‘S gonna be a big surprise.”

“Oh shit,” Race replied, staring transfixed at a bearded dragon. “What sorta snake?”

“Ball python.” Jack headed towards the birds. “Medda got in touch with some fancy breeder that makes yellowish ones.”

Race pulled his attention from the lizards and followed Jack. “‘S so weird that people do that.”

“Do what?” Jack asked, eyeing a blue parakeet.

“Purposeful breeding like that. Y’know, trying to make specific-looking creatures.”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. ‘S how we got dogs. Dogs are pretty great.”

“Yeah, that’s weird too.” Race paused to watch the cage full of little colorful finches. “I bet people would do it with kids, if they could.” He waved his hand pointlessly. “I mean duh they _ could _, but like, without putting limits on who gets to fuck who.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how you do it,” Jack said.

Race shook his head. “Nah, if it was there wouldn’t be ugly people.”

“You saying ugly people don’t fuck?”

“No, that’s my point.” Race began to compartmentalize with his hands. “Ugly people _ do _ fuck. Hence we have ugly people. If we did selective breeding with humans, ugly people _ wouldn’t _ fuck, cause no one wants more ugly people.”

“That’s what I was saying!”

Race thought for a moment and shrugged. “Didn’t sound like it, but sure.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“What if we got like, five of the little guys?”

Jack shook his head. “We’ll be lucky to get _ one _ out unnoticed.”

Race scoffed. “Whaddayou talking about? No ones gonna notice you running out with four or five birds in your shirt after I break one ‘a the fish tanks.”

“One bird or I’m out.”

“Yeah, getting you out is the point,” Race giggled.

“Fine.” Jack held up his hands in surrender. “Good luck pulling off your Great Bird Heist without me, though.”

“What, no, Jacky, come onnnn,” Race whined. “I can’t do this alone! I need my best bud!”

“One bird.”

After a good deal more pouting, Race agreed to only one bird. “But it’s gotta be a big, loud one.”

“Deal.” Jack spat in his palm and offered his hand for a shake.

Race followed suit without batting an eye. “You’re super gross, you know that right?”

“Ditto.”

He snickered, turning his attention back to the birds. “Okay, so which one looks the most annoying?”

“How about this little, fruit-lookin’ bastard?”

Race gasped. “_ Perfect _.”

The little, fruit-lookin’ bastard was a pineapple green-cheeked conure, chilling by itself on an end cap.

“Aww look, she’s lonely! We gotta take her.” Race rubbed his hands together like some old movie con-man planning his next scam. “Okay, so here’s the plan. You ask to see her, an’ get her out of the cage, then I’ll break some shit to draw attention and we bolt.”

Jack nodded very seriously. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to bring you on more field trips then; This ain’t shit.” Race grinned before flapping lightly at Jack, ushering him towards the front register. “Go see a bird, gittouta here.”

As soon as Jack started walking, Race darted down the aisle, heading towards the fish. He waited a minute or two, and realized that they should have come up with some signal to indicate Jack had the bird. He decided to go check, and crept carefully up a different aisle, aiming to peek around the corner and see what was going on. The older gentleman in that same aisle, who was deciding on a brand of dental chews for his dog, looked at Race like he had two heads as he passed.

When he got to the top of the aisle, Race peeked out, just in time to see Jack walk out the door, holding a little temporary transportation box that—more likely than not, seeing as the endcap was now empty—had a bird inside. Just as Race’s eyebrows scrunched and his mouth opened in confusion, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, and promptly dropped it. Muttering grumpy nonsense, he retrieved his phone, and flicked the new message open.

“_ He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: You owe me $200 you bastard _.”


	10. Her Name Is Bertha, and She Hates You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos ensues.

After promising to deliver at least four of the apple turnovers that Mr. Higgins had made the previous day, along with a cheat sheet for the upcoming math quiz, Race managed to convince Jack to show up to school early on Monday so they could put the bird in Spot’s locker. They stored the bird in Jack’s closet for the weekend under the pretense of watching it for a classmate. Medda pretended to believe them.

Race got to school at seven-fifteen on Monday, and for an agonizing eight minutes, worried that Jack was gonna bail. When he finally showed up, the two hurried inside and headed towards Spot’s locker—which was conveniently almost directly across from Race’s.

“She’s actually pretty quiet,” Jack said of the bird. “Medda just happened to have a cage lying around in the attic that I kept her in.”

“One, that’s creepy,” Race replied, working the built in spin lock on the locker door. “Two, dammit.” Without much effort, he popped the lock, and swung the little metal door open.

“Whatever,” Jack said. “Medda has everything laying around.” He handed the bird in her little cardboard carrier over to Race.

“Still weird to just have a  _ cage _ in the attic,” Race muttered. He set the little box on the ground for a moment and fished around in his backpack. He pulled out a sleeve of Townhouse crackers and a little packet of raisins, which he sprinkled around on the bottom of Spot’s locker. He also ripped a piece of paper out of one of his notebooks, and taped it to the back wall of the locker, right at eye level—well, a bit below his eye level, but hopefully on target for Spot’s—after writing ‘Her name is Bertha, and she hates you’ on it. Finally, he put a little plastic cup of water that he had filled at the fountain not long ago into the locker as well.

“Now, there’s the little vents in the door, so she’ll have plenty of air, she’s got snacks, and everyone’s gonna be here in,” Race glanced at his phone, “like ten minutes, so she won’t be cooped up for long.”

Jack nodded. “When do we get suspended?”

“Oh, no no no,” Race assured him, closing the locker door most of the way, and aiming the top of the box inside. “No one’s gonna know. We’ll be fine.”

He opened the box, and as soon as the bird hopped out into the floor of the locker to investigate the array of snacks, he yanked the box away and closed the door.

* * *

First period passed without event. Race was a little disappointed. He’d been hoping for chaos, but oh well, c’est la vie. He followed the rip current of students from the classroom and started down the hallway to his next class. He was about fifty feet from the door when he was jerked back by his backpack and slammed into a locker.

“Are you actually insane? You put a live fucking bird in my locker?”

Oh, good—chaos.

When Race’s vision cleared, Spot Conlon had a hold of the front of his shirt and was pinning him against the lockers behind him. Half of Race’s brain was immediately flooded with a host of thoughts and feelings about being slammed and pinned against a wall by Spot Conlon that landed well beyond the border of indecent; the other half kicked into bullshit mode.

“Whoa, what the hell man!?” Race cried indignantly.

“We’re project partners! I recognize your handwriting, dumbass!” Spot’s let go of Race’s shirt, but didn’t back off. He gestured emphatically. “There is bird shit all over my stuff! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Damn, Race hadn’t thought about the handwriting. “Bird shit cleans off surprisingly easy,” He replied blithely.

Spot stared at him in a delicious combination of bewilderment and hatred, and Race didn’t even try to hide the self satisfied grin that slid across his face. “Well, have fun with your new girlfriend.  _ I’m _ gonna go to class.” He side-stepped past Spot, turning to continue down the hallway.

Spot snapped, “Go play in traffic instead, you  _ stupid fucking faggot _ .”

Race froze. He’d been called a lot of things in his life by a lot of different people. Funnily enough, ‘stupid fucking faggot’ wasn’t even a new one. Usually, he didn’t care—at the most, he’d be amused by other people’s efforts to hurt him—at least, that’s what he had convinced himself.

But hearing that out of Spot Conlon’s mouth, after the years of torment and now his sudden and ruinous return that was shaping up to pretty well spoil his senior year, Race couldn’t take it. Maybe it was because he hadn’t slept in three days, maybe it was because he felt like he was going half a beat faster than the rest of the world around him, and Spot had thrown off the already chaotic rhythm, maybe it was because he just  _ really _ wanted to pick a fight...He turned slowly to face Spot, and a smile cracked across his face like a window breaking.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Spot laughed. He fucking laughed. “I said—”

Even though he’d been fantasizing about it for days now—and at this point was honestly intending to do so, anyway—Race didn’t realize he’d thrown a punch until his fist connected with Spot’s face.

Spot stumbled back a couple steps. Then, with the practice ease of someone who had plenty of experience settling arguments with their fists, lunged at Race, tackling him to the floor. The back of Race’s head cracked against the linoleum floor, and a moment later pain exploded from his cheek where Spot’s fist slammed into it. Race yelled—Did it hurt? Was he angry? Did it matter?—and lashed back at the smaller but considerably stronger boy. _ Somebody’s _ blood was on the floor. At this point, it would be a struggle to discern whose it was. Dark blotches skirted Race’s vision as Spot landed a particularly hard hit to the side of his head, and a brief numbness shot down his limbs to his fingertips and toes.

As is the way of children, a circle of spectators soon developed around the two boys, egging them on as they traded blows. There was a furious cry of, “ _ Hey! _ ” and Spot was dragged off Race by Jack and a teacher. “Get offa him!” Jack snarled.

Race was dazed for a moment, and it didn’t immediately register that there were teachers and yelling. Despite the now noticeable pain, he felt a bit better. Sometimes, the best way to deal with a whole bunch of issues is just punch a small sack of shit in the face. If said sack of shit happens to beat the hell out of you right afterwards, well, that was honestly sort of cathartic, too.

* * *

A cursory check from the school nurse and a couple of Band-Aids later, Race and Spot were sitting in the principal’s office, silently fuming at each other.

This was not an unusual scene for Race, as he was in trouble rather frequently, so aside from willing lightning to strike through the window and burn Spot to a crisp, Race was quite unconcerned. Spot, on the other hand, couldn’t sit still. He bounced in his seat, dragging his hands through his hair and over his face and digging his fingers into his thighs, glancing around like a caged animal.

Knowing full well it was a bad idea to further antagonize him, Race scoffed. “Relax, he’s not gonna chop your dick off.”

“Fuck you, Anthony,” Spot growled, but there was noticeably little bite in his tone.

A little snort of laughter escaped. “‘Anthony’?”

“‘S your name, ain’t it?” Spot snapped back. “I might as well use it.”

“Yeah sure,  _ Sean _ .”

Spot didn’t react to his name. Instead, he stood up and started pacing back and forth across the room.

Race rolled his eyes, shifting sideways in the uncomfortable chair and tossing his legs over the wooden arm. “Jesus, haven’t you ever been sent to the principal before?”

“Oh my god, would you shut up!?”

Race held his hands up in surrender, briefly widening his eyes in the universal ‘what a drama queen’ face. Before either of them could continue snapping at the other, the door opened, and the principal walked in.

“Hello, boys.” He already sounded tired of their shit, and neither had even said anything yet.

Spot tensed up from head to toe, as stiff as a board, and sat down in a chair as far away from Race as possible.

Race bit down a snort of laughter and turned his attention, along with an easy smile, to the principal. “Hi, Mr. Kloppman.”

Mr. Kloppman went to sit behind his desk, and sighed. “Alright, so what happened?”

Spot buried his face in his hands.

With a short glance in his direction, Race began. “Well, things been tense with us at the best of times, what with him trying his best to kill me before I reached double digits—”

Spot grumbled, and Race was pretty sure he heard, “I wish I had succeeded.”

He shot him a glare before continuing. “He called me a ‘stupid fucking faggot’, and one thing just led to another.”

Mr. Kloppman sighed again, cringing a little at Race’s words, before turning to look at Spot. “Anything you’d like to add, Sean?”

Without even taking his head out of his hands, Spot shook his head.

Another sigh. “Well, as you both should know, fighting on school grounds is entirely unacceptable, and so is that kind of language.”

Race nodded. “I agree entirely.”

Mr. Kloppman shot him a quelling look before he continued. “I’ll be calling your parents,” Race cringed, “as well as your aunt, Sean.”

Spot looked up at Mr. Kloppman then, and Race was startled to see that his eyes were red and wet. He hadn’t realized the son of a bitch even had emotions.

“No, you can’t do that,” Spot said, voice wavering the tiniest bit.

“I can, and I will, Sean. Your behavior was well out of line, and actions have consequences.” 

Race would’ve rolled his eyes—adults with minor levels of authority always thought they were so lofty and profound—but he was much too distracted by Spot’s evident distress.

“Please.” Spot gripped his knees so hard, his knuckles turned white. “She’ll send me back to my parents. I—”

Race continued watching him, mildly concerned—as one is automatically when seeing a fellow creature in distress—but much more fascinated by this strange unfolding of Spot’s now mysterious backstory.

“Sean, this has to be addressed.” Mr. Kloppman said firmly.

“I know,” Spot said thickly, “but I can deal with it. I’m eighteen.” As he spoke, his demeanor shifted from insecure to mature with practiced ease. “My parents ain’t takin’ care of me no more, and my aunt’s just my landlord, really. I can handle this on my own.”

Mr. Kloppman sighed, and addressed them both. “This is the second incident between you two in two weeks. I’m giving you detention this time, but if there is a third, I will have no choice but to consider suspension.”

Spot’s shoulders slumped, and a look of what Race could only identify as fear flashed across his face. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Race nodded a confirmation as well. Satisfied, Mr. Klopmman wrote a detention slip for each of them, and sent them on their way.

Out in the hallway, Race’s curiosity got the best of him. “So what was that all about?”

“What?” Spot grunted, heading back towards his locker.

Against his better judgement—that’s a lie, Race had no better judgement—Race trailed after him. “All that shit.” He gestured back towards the office.

“Having some goddamn respect for authority? ‘Cause you’s pretty bold in there for someone who threw the first punch.

Race rolled his eyes. “You were asking for it. Nah, I mean what’s with you freaking out about a little phone call?”

Spot’s upper lip twitched into a snarl. “What? Didn’t your fabulous adoptive mommy and daddy tell you not everyone’s got a fuckin’ fairytale family?”

Race held his hands up placatingly. “Don’t get’cher panties in a twist, I was just curious.”

Spot let out a long, heavy sigh as he reached his locker. “I’m callin’ a truce, Race,” he said without actually turning to look at Race.

Race blinked, surprised. “What?”

“You heard me.” Spot leaned his forehead on the locker. “If my aunt don’t ship me back to Philly this time, she sure as hell will next time, and I ain’t going back there, so.” He opened his locker and took out his phone.

Race frowned, intrigued. “You gonna stop being such a dick, then?”

“Are you?”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s been calling me a faggot, so I think you’re the worse offender here.”

Spot looked at him. “You physically punched me in the face.”

“Like I said, you asked for it.” Race shrugged. “And I’m pretty sure you hit me a lot more than I hit you.”

Spot rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

Race rolled his eyes as well. “You’re the worst.”

“Creative,” Spot deadpanned. “Go to hell, Race.” Although they had AP Bio next, he turned the other way and walked, pressing his phone to his ear as he went.

“Only if you go first,” Race called after him before turning to head to class.

* * *

Spot never showed up to AP Bio, and Race was completely fine with this. As usual, he only half focused on the lecture, taking notes to later copy and sell, and absently tormenting Albert by stretching his leg across the aisle to push his chair every minute or so. After class, Race and Albert wandered out into the hall, where Jack fell in line with them almost instantly.

“What are you doing for your birthday, this year?” Albert asked, sipping on a Capri-Sun he had seemingly pulled out of thin air.

Jack’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, birthday!”

Oh shit, birthday. In all the drama of the start of the school year, Race had somehow forgotten that his eighteenth birthday was only two weeks away.

“I’m gonna see if I can convince Dad to rent a boat.”

Albert snorted. “A boat?”

“Yeah,” Race nodded, “a boat.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Race scoffed. “Don’t be stupid, Albert.”

“Yeah, don’t be stupid, Albert,” Jack parroted (ha, parroted).

Albert huffed, “What are you going to do on a boat?”

Race turned a wide eyed gaze to him, staring as if Albert had suddenly grown an entire giraffe out of the back of his head. “Boat stuff, Albert. Boat stuff.”

“ _ Pffffft _ ,” Jack sputtered, falling to his hands and knees.

Race turned his indignant gaze on him next. “Excuse me, did I say something funny?”

“Not at all, Race. I, too, am into boat stuff.”

“Oh my  _ fucking _ god,” Albert groaned, speeding up to get ahead of his friends.

Race kicked Jack before he could get up again, and this of course quickly devolved into a shoving match, which then became backpack bumper cars, which then became them getting yelled at by a passing teacher while Albert laughed in the background.

“I can’t believe you’re actually going to be allowed to vote,” Albert said once Race and Jack were finished getting reprimanded for their shenanigans. He shook his head. “America is doomed.”

Race snorted, amused. “I’m gonna write in ‘Doug Dimmadome, Owner of The Dimmsdale Dimmadome’ for every spot on the ballot.”

“Nope, nope, nope.” Jack raised an index finger. “Plankton 2020 all the way.”

Albert sighed. “Never mind; America was already doomed by Jack.”

“But consider,” Race put his palms together and placed his fingertips in front of his mouth, pausing for effect before aiming his hands at Albert. “Shamu.”


	11. Hell Yeah Boat Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to improve between Race and Spot, and Race plans his birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Turkey Day to our fellow Americans!

The next two days crept by. Race had been grounded the moment he set foot in his house. His parents took away his phone, and he was only allowed to leave the premises for school, track, dance, and church. On the bright side, he made a lot of progress on the paper he and Spot were writing, editing and re-editing sentences into oblivion for lack of anything else to do before eventually finding the perfect one.

He and Spot didn’t so much as make eye contact until Thursday, when Spot approached him in the hallway after second period, right before AP Bio.

Race automatically tensed at his approach, watching him warily as he got closer.

Spot stopped about six inches away from him and shoved his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Hey, I texted you about the project yesterday, and you never got back to me.”

Race took half a step backwards, hadn’t this kid ever learned about personal space? Jeez. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see it. I don’t have my phone right now.”

“Oh. Well, I was just wondering when you wanted to work on it next.”

“Uh, you mean outside of school?”

Spot shrugged. “You got time inside a’ school?”

“Not particularly, no.” Race shrugged a bit, as well. “I’d have to check with my folks, I dunno if a study session falls in the realm of school or socialization.”

Spot nodded. “Okay. Just, uh...let me know, I guess.”

Race nodded, and when Spot didn’t immediately go away, he felt oddly compelled to fill the silence with an attempt at conversation. “So, guess you’re not getting ‘shipped back to Philly’ then?”

Spot let out a single, bitter chuckle. “Nah, but one more strike an’ I’m out.”

Race shifted a bit further back. “What’s that all about, anyway? You live with your aunt?”

“Yeah, s’long as I get good grades and stay outta trouble.”

“Why?”

Spot frowned. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Why d’you live with your aunt? Philly that bad?”

“Yeah.”

Race laughed briefly. “‘Ask a stupid question’.”

“‘Get a stupid answer’.”

“I mean I shoulda expected that in the first place, talkin’ to you,” Race teased, surprising himself with how very little venom was in that gibe.

Spot scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Okay, jackass.”

Race smirked. “Can I go to class now, or is accosting me in the hallway your new hobby or somethin’?”

Spot held up his hands and backed off a couple steps, giving Race room to pass him.

“No? Aww, shame.” He snickered, moving past Spot and heading towards AP Bio.

“Hey, Race,” Spot called before he got too far away.

Race paused, looking back at him expectantly.

Spot was looking at the floor. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day. That wasn’t cool.”

Race frowned, surprised and a tad bit confused. “Uh, yeah, okay...don’t worry about it.”

* * *

“I know we can’t do an  _ actual _ boat, but I have to have  _ something _ , just out of spite,” Race explained to his parents, who were affectionately confused—the natural state, when dealing with one Racetrack Higgins.

“Like...” His father paused in thought. “A boat cake?”

“Mmm, not enough. We gotta be able to do boat stuff.”

“I dunno, son, that sounds like something you should keep in a bedroom.”

Mrs. Higgins glared at her husband in exasperation.

“Ohmygod  _ Dad _ ,” Race exclaimed. “What’s that even supposed to  _ mean!? _ ”

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Mrs. Higgins interrupted, “what did you have in mind, Tony?”

Race paused to think. Of course a proper clipper ship would be unreasonable, but there had to be a compromise they could all live with. “We could always just get a kiddie pool and put a little raft in it, but that’s no fun.”

Mrs. Higgins nodded, considering. “We could probably do that. You boys might have to make the raft, though, I’m not sure where we’d find—”

She was interrupted by Race suddenly flailing in excitement and shouting. “Bounce house!”

His parents both chuckled.

“Bud,” Mr. Higgins said, “if what you really want to celebrate your eighteenth birthday is a bounce house, we can look into it. I think there might be a size limit on those things, though.”

“No, but they make boat shaped ones! It’s perfect!”

“We could just bite the bullet and do a pirate theme,” Mrs. Higgins suggested, sounding only half sarcastic. She knew her son so well.

Race gasped. “We’ll have so many boats. Ha! Albert’s gonna look like such an idiot.”

Mr. Higgins laughed. “Alright, I’ll find a bounce house rental company.”

“I assume ice cream cake?” Mrs. Higgins asked, barely even a question, and Race just beamed.

He knew the whole thing was ridiculous, and childish—having a pirate party with a bounce house for his eighteenth birthday—but, unlike most kids with normal upbringings, he’d never  _ had _ a pirate birthday party.

“Ooh!” Mrs. Higgins exclaimed, brightening up like someone had turned on a light switch. “We should make message-in-a-bottle invitations!”

And, unlike most parents, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins had never gotten to throw a pirate birthday party.

“Can we do a treasure chest for the cake? Wait no, it needs to be a boat, we need as many boats as possible.”

“Boat party it is, then.” Mr. Higgins clapped his hands together in front of him.

“We should use cardboard and stuff to make a wagon or something look like a boat, so I can push Albert down a hill. Oh and we can play Poopdeck!” Race enthused, entirely delighted.

“Poopdeck?” his mother asked.

“It’s this dumb game,” Race explained, “where you mark some area as the ship or whatever, and it’s divided into three sections—poopdeck, quarterdeck, and maindeck. Someone gets to be the captain, and they yell a bunch of commands and everyone else has to run to whichever part of the ship was called, and you can add in a bunch of other ones, too.”

“We should be making a list!” Mr. Higgins interrupted suddenly, standing up and walking swiftly towards the room that was supposed to be a formal dining room but ended up being used as an office.

Plans for Race’s increasingly ridiculous pirate birthday party continued to develop. Mrs. Higgins started making a Pinterest board as Mr. Higgins and Race looked through the inventories of various bounce house rental companies, searching for pirate ships. Race wanted to get the one with three different levels, and two slides, but Mr. Higgins assured him that if they got that one, Race would have to figure out some bounce house-related scholarship to pay for college.

“I don’t think they have those, dad.”

“Well, then, I guess we’d better find a different bounce house.”

Silly as it all was, Race was exceedingly happy that his parents were going along with it and allowing him to indulge in such childish nonsense. Even though it made no sense, he sometimes felt guilty for not being younger. Mr. and Mrs. Higgins loved Race with all their hearts, and he knew that, but he also knew that by adopting him instead of a younger boy, they had given up a huge part of parenthood. No first words or first steps, no bedtime stories or coloring pages, Mrs. Higgins hadn’t rocked her baby to sleep in her arms, and Mr. Higgins hadn’t taught him to hit a baseball.

He’d asked them before, if they ever wished they’d picked a different kid, a younger kid, and Mrs. Higgins had pulled him into her arms and assured him that they wouldn’t trade him for the whole world.

One bright Saturday when Race was fourteen, when his mother was grocery shopping and he and his father were cleaning the kitchen, he asked why they didn’t have kids of their own. The windows were open, the radio on the counter was tuned to a classic rock station and quietly playing, but the beautiful day seemed to stand still, sharp and clear, while Race waited for Mr. Higgins to answer.

“We tried,” Mr. Higgins admitted, “for a very long time.”

He told Race the story of four miscarriages and failed fertility treatments and crises of faith, of nights spent asking why God wouldn’t give them a child when He gave so many to people who didn’t even want them, to going through the difficult process of becoming foster parents and almost backing out at the last second.

“And then we brought you home,” he said, “and do you know what your mother said to me, that night?”

“What?” Race wasn’t sure why, but was afraid of what the answer would be.

“She said, ‘This is why,’” his dad told him. “‘This is why God never gave us a baby. We were meant to have Anthony.’”

Race didn’t anything right away, just hugged his father real tight. After a minute he asked. “Do you ever wish I  _ was _ a baby? Or at least, like, younger?”

Mr. Higgins then kissed his forehead. “I only wish we’d gotten to you sooner.”

Race snapped out of the memory when his mother called, “Tony! Come look at this boat cake!”

Rather than slipping out of his chair and walking around to look over his mother’s shoulder, Race climbed most of the way onto the kitchen table, stretching across to peek around the edge of her laptop. Displayed on the screen was, in fact, a boat cake. It had paper sails, candles sticking out of the sides in place of cannons, and a pretzel stick bowsprit. He giggled. “It’s perfect.”

* * *

The following evening, Race’s parents let him leave the house for a study session.

“Ten million dollars, in your hand, right now,  _ but _ a snail will be chasing you for the rest of your life, and if it touches you, you die a terrible death. The snail can’t be killed, and it will always know exactly where you are. Do you take the cash?”

“Please,” Spot begged, voice wavering slightly, “can we just talk about the project?”

Race kicked his legs up over the arm of the stiff chair that he had deposited himself into when the boys finished their first raid of the nonfiction section in the basement of the library. It was weird that they also kept the comic books down there, but Race wasn’t about to complain, as he had laced his pile of study materials with old fashioned Superman comics.

“No, c’mon, think about it!” he replied, a little louder than necessary. “Last question, I promise.”

It had taken about four other such ridiculous queries to wear Spot down into answering, clearly hoping that if he humored Race, he’d eventually stop stalling and focus. Of course, he’d had no such luck so far.

Spot massaged his temples with his fingers. “No. No, Race, I don’t want the ten million dollars.”

Race scoffed, pushing his fingers through his hair. “You’re a fool. Just get someone to put the snail in a terrarium.”

“If the snail can’t be killed, I suspect it can get out of a terrarium.”

“Why? It’s just a snail.”

Spot let out a long, slow sigh. “Race, if we’re not gonna work on the project, I have other homework I could be doing, so I’ll just go.”

Race held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just tryin’ to spark a friendly bit a’ philosophical debate, that’s all.”

“Can we have a philosophical debate over how to define parasitism?”

“Whatever makes you happy.” Race smiled, only sneering the tiniest bit. After the threat of suspension, disappointment from his parents, and Spot’s call for a truce, Race  _ was _ trying harder to get along, but he just couldn’t resist being at least a  _ little _ bit of a shithead.

“Thank you.” Spot looked down at his notebook. “So, it sounds like it’s important to note that a parasite decreases the hosts fitness, instead of just bothering them in the short t—” He cut off abruptly when his phone lit up with a text message. He rolled his eyes and swiped the message away. “It doesn’t just bother them in the short term, right?” Another message. “Jesus Christ,” he huffed.

Suddenly alight with curiosity, Race’s eyebrows rose. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Spot waves his hand as yet another message chimed in. “Nah, just my day-drunk ex being a nuisance, per usual.”

Race laughed. “Shit, I got, like, three of those. Is yours the weepy, regretful type, or just lookin’ for a booty call?”

“Depends on the day.”

Race snickered. “Sounds like fun. What’s her name?”

Spot silenced his phone and tucked it into his backpack. “Ethan.”


	12. GAY(Sent With 'Loud' Effect)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race has trouble coming to terms with recent revelations regarding Spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happens in this chapter.

The Two Musketqueers and the Token Straighty

Race, 4:36pm: Hooooooooly shit

Race, 4:36pm: Holy shit

Race, 4:36pm: He’s gay

Race, 4:36pm: Hooooooooooooooooooo

My Best Pal-bert, 4:37pm: ?????

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls, 4:37pm: Oh no who

Race, 4:37pm: We’re studying

Race, 4:37pm: And he’s sitting here

Race, 4:37pm: And he’s looking at me

Race, 4:38pm: And he’s gay

Race, 4:38pm: HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My Best Pal-bert, 4:38: Jesus Christ

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls, 5:38pm: WHO IS IT

My Best Pal-bert, 5:38pm: why are you like this

Race, 5:39pm: SPIT

Race, 5:39pm: SPOT

Race, 5:39pm: SPOT COBLPM IS GAY

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls, 5:39pm: ...

My Best Pal-bert, 5:40pm: Uh

Race, 5:40pm: What are you DEAF??

Race, 5:40pm: Spot Conlon

Race, 5:40pm: is

Race, 5:40pm: GAY(sent with ‘loud’ effect)

My Best Pal-bert, 5:41pm: He’s gotta be messing with you

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls, 5:41pm: WTFDFFF

Race, 5:41: He isn’t! I was so shocked I deadpan asked if he was shitting me and he just gave me this flat look I think he’s for real

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls, 5:42pm: WUT(sent with ‘echo’ effect)

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls, 5:42pm: Plot twist

Race, 5:42pm: I think I’m going into shock 

Race, 5:43pm: someone get me one of those yellow tin foil blankets

* * *

Albert, 5:43pm: Oh my god he’s gonna fuck him isn’t he

Jack, 5:44pm: Yeppp

* * *

Spot stepped through the front door and kicked off his shoes. “Hey, Beth?” he called, voice echoing quietly around his aunt’s small house. He leaned in toward the hallway. “Beth?”

That’s when he caught sight of the note on the desk. “_ On call tonight. Lasagna in the freezer. Have a good night! Love you! _”

Spot let out a sigh that turned into a groan as he shrugged his heavy backpack off onto the floor and took a seat in the desk chair, pulling up to use the computer. He hadn’t gotten nearly as much work done on the project as he had hoped, what with Race yapping nonstop about utter bullshit. He should have known that, if he transferred back to Duane High, Racetrack Higgins would find a way to get under his skin again. They might as well be eight years old again.

It’s not that Spot didn’t like Race, when they were kids. No, it wasn’t like that at all. He was just a stupid third-grader who didn’t know how to act, how to deal with things. That was all in the past, anyway...at least, he thought it was, but damn could Racetrack Higgins hold a grudge. Not only that, but Racetrack Higgins had turned into a complete terror. Spot’s project partner was not the kid he remembered from elementary school. Spot’s project partner was obnoxious, antagonistic, insensitive...

He was pretty. That much hadn’t changed.

Spot sighed and let his head fall into his hands. He could _ not _ let Racetrack Higgins get in his head and throw him off. If he could just get through high school, he could get the fuck out—out of Philadelphia, out of New York, out of the whole damn country if fate so ruled.

Spot just had to stay focused. So what if he’d had a crush on the kid in third grade? He could not let himself be so easily shaken. He would not let Racetrack Higgins ruin his life.

* * *

Saturday at two-fifteen. Therapy. When Hannah came to collect him from the waiting room, Race barely made it three steps towards her before she gasped.

“Tony, oh my god, what happened!?”

It took him a moment to realize she meant the big, beautiful, brown bruise that still lingered on his jaw, courtesy of Spot Conlon’s mean left hook.

“Oh, Spot and I got into a fight on Monday, no big deal.” He waved his hand dismissively and walked past her, heading towards her office. “Did you know the blob fish actually looks totally normal, deep underwater?” he asked over his shoulder. “It just decompresses when you take it out of extreme depths. Imagine aliens discovering the human race and naming us after what we look like when we explode in the vacuum of space.” He snickered, plopping down onto the couch. The ‘How Long Can I Keep Us Talking Bullshit’ game had quickly become Race’s favorite part of therapy.

Hannah nodded. “That’s interesting, Tony. What do you think they’d call us?

“I dunno,” he said, giving it genuine thought. “I’ve never seen a person explode in the vacuum of space.”

Hannah moved to take her usual seat by the desk. “Well,” she began, “maybe we should talk about this fight instead, then.”

“Yeah, okay,” Race answered compliantly. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. He called me a ‘stupid fucking fag’ cause I put a live bird in his locker, and then it was just punching.”

Hannah blinked several times. “I’m sorry, could you go over all that again?”

Race turned sideways, putting his feet back on the floor and sitting forward to explain The Great Bird Heist of 2019 and the chaos that followed. “...so I’m grounded as hell, and might get suspended if I don’t cut the bullshit, but it was totally worth it.”

“Right...” Hannah tapped her pen against her notebook. She did that when she was thinking, Race had realized at some point. “And what about the other kid?”

“Same threat.” Race shrugged. “Also something about getting shipped back to his parents in Philly? I dunno, but he certainly wasn’t keen on the idea.” Race leaned back against the cushions as he continued. “I think we’ll be fine though. He declared a truce after we talked to Mr. Kloppman.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Surprisingly well.” With a loud, sudden gasp, Race sat forward again. “And I found out he’s _ gay! _”

Hannah frowned. “The boy that called you a faggot is gay?”

“Yes!” Race crowed, still entirely delighted and baffled by this turn of events. “Spot Conlon the nose breaking homophobe is gaaaaay.”

“Well, that’s concerning for him,” Hannah muttered.

Race didn’t properly notice what she’d said, as he was busy launching a retelling of their most recent and least volatile study session.

Hannah listened intently, narrowing her eyes as the story went on. “Tony,” she finally interrupted him.

“And wh— Yeah?”

“You’re talking too fast. I can’t understand you.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t thought he was talking any faster than normal.

Hannah gestured to him. “Go on, just a little slower, if you can.”

Race nodded, and made a conscious effort to maintain the speed of his talking, which is always a weird feeling. “It’s just crazy, almost like a switch flipped. He was _ such _ an ass, all the time, and now he’s almost friendly? I mean, he even listened to my roomba theory. He wasn’t happy, but he listened.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I guess? Better than yelling.”

Hannah nodded and took a couple notes.

The rest of the session passed uneventfully; it was mostly Race continuing to wonder at Spot being gay. Had he always been gay, or was this a new thing? It made no sense for him to have bullied Race for being gay if he was, himself. Eventually, Hannah had to kick him out, promising that he could talk more about Spot’s surprise sexuality next week, if he wanted.

* * *

It wasn’t a very long drive back home after therapy, and by this point Race was pretty well familiar with the route. About three quarters of the way through the seventeen minute drive, however, there was a roundabout. Race hated roundabouts. So many people ignored the common courtesy and rules of the roundabout, just going as soon as they got up, not yielding or waiting their turn. It was always chaotic and unpleasant, and it always set an uncomfortable prickle along the back of Race’s shoulders.

He was always extremely careful entering, much to the irritation of everyone behind him, and today was no exception. He let three cars pass before he started to go, but then quickly stopped again as another car pulled in out of nowhere. He could’ve gone, there was enough space, but he didn’t.

After the roundabout, it was just a few more blocks before his own neighborhood.

Slowing down way earlier than necessary, as usual, Race rolled to a stop at the weirdly angled five-way-stop intersection that really should’ve had a traffic light. The car to his left went, and then the car on the weirdly placed fifth road. There was another car approaching from the left now, but Race had gotten there first, so he started through the intersection. However, the other driver seemed to have different ideas about the proper order of operations, as—rather than slowing to stop—they put on a burst of speed and peeled through the intersection, passing much too close by the nose of Race’s car as he slammed on the breaks, just barely avoiding a collision.

It was a good thing there weren’t any other cars waiting, as it took a moment for Race to start breathing again, and another for a coherent thought to push through the pounding in his chest that was drowning out everything else. He pulled the rest of the way through the intersection, and carefully pulled over to the side of the road, bringing the car to a stop. He was shaking like a leaf, and his breath kept hitching uncomfortably just behind his heart. He pulled his phone out, fumbling a little as he brought up his mom’s contact, and hit the little phone icon next to her name. She answered after a couple rings, but by the time she picked up, there were already tears running down his face.

“Hey, sweetie! What’s up?”

“H-hi, mom,” Race tried and failed to keep his voice from trembling. 

“Tony? Are you okay?”

“I, yeah. I uh,” he sniffled, “I was driving home, and I—” Another sniffle. “I was going through the intersection,” he paused to take a breath, passing the back of his hand roughly over his eyes in an attempt to push away the stream of tears, “and this guy didn’t stop. He—” Yet another sniffle. “He almost hit me.”

“Oh, sweetie. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

He let out a rough, wet breath—not quite a sob. “The big five way intersection on Bonham Street.”

“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

Race didn’t manage to construct an answer through the onslaught of tears. Even though he logically knew that he was fine, and nothing had really happened, that didn’t stop his heart from fluttering like a bird that was trying to break its way through the bars of his rib cage. The passing cars were way too loud and way too close, so Race screwed his eyes up tight, and curled into a little ball, pulling his legs up past the steering wheel to tuck his knees against his chest and press his face into his folded arms.

Mrs. Higgins arrived in five minutes, having taken a cab to his location. “Tony, sweetie?” she said, raising her voice slightly to be heard through the window.

He looked up, and quickly opened the door, tumbling out into her arms. He knew the whole thing was silly, but he still couldn’t stop crying. He felt so small, and his head was still ringing with the screech of tires.

His mom hushed him gently, petting his hair. “Shh, you’re okay. You did great, sweetie.”

“I’m sorry,” Race whimpered, pressing his face into her shoulder as he held on tight.

“Nothing to be sorry for. You did everything just right.”

They simply stood there for a while, on the side of the road, as Race sobbed into Mrs. Higgins shoulder. She continued to coo and pet his hair, occasionally letting her hand drift to rest for a moment on the back of his neck, covering the jagged scar where it peaked up past the collar of his shirt. After a minute or so, she began to hum the little melody that she always did when Race was stuck in that headspace, trying to give him something to focus on. Another minute or so, and the tears began to slow as Race relaxed a bit.

He took a shaky breath, straightening up. “I’m sorry...”

Mrs. Higgins should her head. “No, Tony. I’m so proud of you.” She placed her hands on his cheeks and brushed what remained of his tears away with her thumbs. “You want to go home, now?”

He nodded, still feeling very small.

“Okay, come on.” She opened the passenger’s side door for him and left her hand on his shoulder as he sat down. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, wiping the back of his wrist across his nose, still breathing a little stuttery from crying. She closed his door and walked across to the other side.

She sat down behind the wheel as asked as she started the car and put it in gear, “What do you want for dinner tonight?” It was a distraction tactic, clearly.

“Uh...” Race answered hesitantly. He still had prickles running all over his skin, and was having a hard time thinking properly.

“You don’t have to answer, now. Just think about it.”

The car started moving. Wincing, Race held tightly to the edges of the passenger seat, fighting down the sick swoop in his stomach as the car picked up to a normal speed.

“I found a bakery in town to make your ice cream boat cake,” Mrs. Higgins said. “They just need to know what flavor you want. They even do a birthday cake flavored ice cream! How funny is that?”

“Mhm.” Race nodded tightly, trying to anchor himself with his mom’s voice as his stomach jolted at every car that approached and passed. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his mother’s driving. He trusted Mrs. Higgins with his life a million times over. He didn’t trust everyone else on the road with his mother’s life, however. His thoughts began to quickly spiral towards what he would do if they _ did _ get hit, and his breathing started to pick up again. There wouldn’t be anything he could do to protect his mother, or himself for that matter. He could lose everything he had in a split second. It had happened before. It could happen again. Everyone always thinks it won’t happen to them, but Race had no such illusion.

Luckily, it was a very short drive—only a few blocks—to get home. Race winced once again as the car bumped up into the driveway, and Mrs. Higgins pulled in to park in the empty space next to her own car.

Race let out a heavy breath, still unable to properly relax while he was still in the car. He fumbled a little, unlocking and opening the door, and almost tried to get up without unbuckling his seatbelt. He laughed shakily, pressing the button to release the belt, and stepping out of the car. “Thanks for rescuing me, momma.” He moved around the front of the car to stand by his mother.

“Of course, sweetie.” She rubbed his back comfortingly. “Do you want to watch a movie? I could make popcorn...”

He cringed a tiny bit. Movies, while very fun, frequently involve bright lights and loud noises, and there was more than plenty of that lingering in his head. “I think I might go lie down for a bit...”

“Whatever you need.”

“Is dad home?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Higgins nodded, “he was watching TV when I left.”

“Good.” Although still quite rattled, Race felt a bit better, knowing everyone was home, and safe.

“Come on, sweetie,” his mother said, patting his back, “let’s go inside.”

He nodded minutely and headed inside. Mrs. Higgins shut the door behind them, and Race kicked his shoes off, sending them towards the hall closet. He moved down the short hallway from the foyer to the living room, and found Mr. Higgins, as promised, watching TV.

Mr. Higgins turned to him as soon as he walked it. “Hey, bud. How ya doin’?”

Wordlessly, Race crossed the room, circling to sit down on the couch next to his father. He wrapped his arms tightly around him and pressed his face into the crook of his shoulder.

Mr. Higgins hugged him tightly. “I’ve gotcha, Tony. It’s alright.”

“Don’t die, okay?” Race mumbled, muffled by his father’s shirt.

“‘Course not.” His father kissed the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You better not.”

Mr. Higgins turned off the TV and pulled Race in closer. Mrs. Higgins sat down on the other side of Race and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“We’re always going to be here for you, Tony,” Mrs. Higgins said. “We love you so much.”


	13. It's Probably Sinful to Wear Shellfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pastor Buttons' Godly Dating series gets off to a <s>great</s> start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know that my semester-long, partnered project on Parent-Offspring Conflict Theory is due tonight. My partner and I have gotten along great the entire time.

The week was rather quiet and uneventful, with nothing out of the ordinary, aside from Spot being actually bearable and sometimes even funny? This was discussed at length on Monday night, as Jack timed Race and Albert in a milk chugging contest, which ended when Albert nearly threw up. The matter was further analyzed on Tuesday evening after Jazz and Contemporary. Tommy Boy thought it was a ploy so that Spot could arrange and execute some devastating blow just when he had lulled Race into a false sense of security. 

At six-thirty on Wednesday evening, Race drove to church for youth group, and, as usual, immediately went on the hunt for the ever elusive pastor’s son. He couldn’t find him anywhere, and he only realized why when Elmer stumbled in right before youth group with hazy, red eyes.

Snickering, Race headed towards him. “How’s it goin’ Elmer?”

“Good,” Elmer said softly—not  _ quietly _ , no, but softly, with the vowel sound slightly drawn out and the consonants all mushy.

Race snorted, amused. “I’d bet.”

Only Elmer Kasprzak, son of the pastor at New Grace Fellowship Church, would show up to youth group high as a kite. Furthermore, how dare he get high without Race?

“Alright, everyone, let’s get this party started!” Buttons called over the sea of teenagers.

Race and Elmer took a seat on the floor, with Elmer halfway in Race’s lap. Elmer was already a pretty tactile person, but he got a billion times more so when he was high, not that Race minded. Slinging his arm around his back, Race comfortably rested his forearm on Elmer’s shoulder, looking up as Buttons began to talk.

“Okay, guys. So, like I said last week, tonight, we’re gonna talk about sexuality.”

The entire room winced. ‘Sexuality’ wasn’t a fun word to hear out of your youth pastor’s mouth, especially when that youth pastor was as preciously ridiculous as Buttons. Race shifted a little uncomfortably. He knew this church was more accepting and what not, but he still wasn’t sure what to expect.

“I know, I know.” Buttons held his hands up placatingly. “I know this is a touchy topic, but I think it’s important to address before we get into dating because...well, there are different things to consider, if you are a boy dating a girl versus a girl dating a girl and...so on.”

A girl off to the right, with platinum blonde hair that hung in a shimmering sheet down her back raised her hand into the air, already speaking before Buttons even had a chance to call on her. “Isn’t homosexuality a sin? It says so in Leviticus.”

Race rolled his eyes heavily—Sarah ‘My Name Means Princess’ Louison, here to preach to us again. Oh boy.

“A lot of things are sins, Sarah,” Buttons said. “That’s what’s so special about God’s forgiveness through the blood of Christ.”

“Well right, but aren’t we supposed to be living our lives in His image? Like, trying to  _ avoid  _ sin?”

Race slumped further against the couch he and Elmer were leaning on—well, he was leaning on, Elmer was just leaning on him—silently grumbling a sliding a little further down on the floor.

Buttons eyed him sympathetically. “With one important exception; God can judge, we cannot.”

Sarah opened her mouth to continue bitching, but Race spoke over her as he continued to slide further onto his back on the floor, dragging Elmer down with him. “Y’know the Bible also says it’s sinful to wear cloth made of mixed materials. Also jewelry, and braiding your hair, too.” He thrust an accusatory finger towards the ceiling. “Also shellfish!”

Elmer snorted. “It’s sinful to wear shellfish?”

“Probably,” Buttons chimed in. “Anyway, the fact of the matter is that our sexualities are a part of us and an important part of our relationships.”

Race began to play with Elmer’s hair, still glowering over Sarah’s commentary. He was used to derogatory comments about his sexuality, of course, but that didn’t make it any less irritating, especially in church.

Luckily, Buttons appeared to be on his side. “The point here is not to debate the morality or legitimacy of any sexuality. Does anyone here know what Jesus said about homosexuality?”

“Literally nothing, right?” Elmer piped up from where he lay on the floor, using Race’s ribs as a pillow.

Buttons nodded. “Literally nothing.”

Sarah huffed. “Sure, but we can’t just live in sin, knowing that we’ll be forgiven. How is that okay!?”

Elmer sputtered into sloppy laughter. “Sarah, please, take that stick out of your butt and give it to Race instead. He’s into that.”

Race’s eyes snapped wide, and he choked on a laugh. “Dude, what the hell?”

Sarah made a face. “That’s disgusting. Does your father know you speak like that?”

Race thought he saw Buttons just barely roll his eyes.

Race looked across the room at her, as best he could while still on his back under Elmer. “Him, or me?”

“Both of you, but I meant Elmer.”

“Okay,” Buttons jumped in, “let’s get back on topic—”

Sarah opened her mouth yet again and Race sighed before sitting up and unceremoniously dumping Elmer on the floor as he moved to stand.

Buttons looked at him, somewhere between annoyed and concerned. “Yes, Race?”

Race waved his hand, brushing away Buttons’ attention. “Nah, I’m just gonna head out. Sorry for the disruption.” He glared at Sarah and began to head for the door.

Buttons sighed quietly. “Race, wait—”

Race waved him off again. “‘S all good, don’t let me throw off your groove.”

“You’re not. I promise.”

“I don’t wanna make anyone uncomfortable, and since it seems Sarah is uncomfortable with me even existing, I think I’m just gonna go.” Race offered a tight smile, very specifically not looking at Sarah.

Buttons’ face fell. “Are  _ you _ uncomfortable?”

Race twisted his mouth downwards and put his hands in his pockets, having come to a stop by the doorframe. “With myself, or with her?”

“In general.”

Race easily slid behind a smirk that most people wouldn’t guess was a defense mechanism. “I’m a seventeen year old boy, of course I’m uncomfortable in general.” He patted the doorframe twice for no discernible reason as he again turned to go. “Thanks, Buttons.”

This time, Buttons didn’t say anything and let him go. Race could practically hear the heavy silence in the room behind him as he went. He grimaced, digging his hands into his pockets, and shouldered the door open, heading to the parking lot.

********

Race got home at seven-thirty, about an hour earlier than expected. He shoved his keys into his pocket as he hip checked the front door closed, then peeled off his hoodie. His parents looked over from the couch.

“Tony? You’re home early,” his dad noted with a hint of suspicion.

Race tugged at his hair uncomfortably. “Yeah, tonight got kinda weird, so I dipped...” he answered lamely.

“Weird how?” his mom asked, frowning.

“Uh, there’s this girl Sarah, she’s not really my biggest fan, so I figured better just cut out early and save everyone the uncomfortableness.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Higgins patted the couch next to her for Race to sit down. “What did she do?”

Race crossed the room to the couch obediently, climbing up over the side to sit on the arm of the couch, facing his parents. “So the new series is Godly Dating, or whatever, and tonight was sexuality night.”

Mr. Higgins sighed angrily. “And she gave you crap about it.”

“I mean she was talking to Buttons, not me...” Race wasn’t trying to defend Sarah, certainly not, but he knew this was a touchy topic for Mr. Higgins and figured he might as well at least attempt to diffuse the not-actually-that-bad situation.

Mrs. Higgins joined in with, “What did she say?”

Race shrugged, sort of shying away. “Oh y’know, usual stuff. Nothing especially awful.”

Mr. Higgins wasn’t buying it. “What do they usually say?”

Race pressed his lips together and exhaled. “‘Leviticus says homosexuality is a sin’, ‘we shouldn’t be intentionally living sinful lives’, ‘I just think it’s wrong’.” He shrugged again. “That sorta stuff.”

His parents shared an exasperated look.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins said.

Mr. Higgins nodded in agreement. “I am going to talk to Jessie and have a word with the girl’s parents.”

Race shifted uncomfortably, tilting forwards to slide off the arm of the couch and onto the cushions. “You don’t need to do that, dad, is not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal!” Mr. Higgins argued. “Youth group is supposed to be a safe place for everyone. If it’s not—”

“Dad, it’s fine, really. Everyone else is great and supportive and all that, I promise.”

He huffed, grumbling something about ‘the love of Christ’ and ‘God’s image.’

Race smiled a little wanly. “Thanks for having my back, dad.”

“It’s his job, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins said, straightening Race’s hair with her fingers, “and mine too.”

As soon as Mrs. Higgins moved her hand, Race pulled his fingers through his hair, messing it up again. “Still, though.”

“There’s no shame in letting your parents look after you, even if you are all grown up.”

Race snorted, amused. “‘Grown up’.”

“You’re turning eighteen this weekend!” Mrs. Higgins pouted. “You’re all grown up.”

“Mom, we’re having a boat party, I think I’m about a far from ‘grown up’ as it gets.”

His father squawked indignantly. “Who says grown-ups can’t have boat parties?”

Race snickered. “I’m pretty sure most grown-up boat parties are like, yacht involved.”

Mr. Higgins waved him off. “Who needs a yacht when you can have a bounce house?”

**********

When his phone rang, Spot groaned. He found himself wondering if he really had to answer. He could make an excuse. He could say he was sick and had already fallen asleep. He could say he lost his phone.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. He groaned again and swiped the screen to accept the call, then pressed the phone to his ear. “Hi, mom.”

“Hi, Sean, how are you?” his mother asked.

“M’fine. You?”

This was the routine—on Wednesday nights, his mother called to check in. They had a polite conversation. They went their separate ways for another week.

“Oh, fine, fine. How’s school?”

“Good. Had a math test today.”

He hated it.

“Oh? How did it go?” His mother always sounded just shy of sincere.

“I think it went okay,” he told her, hoping she couldn’t tell from his voice that he was cringing.

“That’s good, Sean. How’s your aunt?”

There was an edge in her voice that Spot didn’t appreciate. He knew things had been tense between his mom and his aunt, since his aunt let him move in with her against his parents’ wishes, to the extent that she was now ‘your aunt’ instead of ‘Beth’.

“She’s good,” Spot replied. “Working a lot. She’s not home much.”

“Hm,” his mother hummed tightly. “How are you liking Duane so far? Making friends?”

It was always like this. Always a barrage of questions that she didn’t really care about the answers to.

“Sure, I got a few friends.” Spot decided not to mention that he’d already gotten detention twice. That was Race’s fault, anyway. “I like it.”

“That’s good, honey. Any of your old classmates from elementary school?”

Spot cringed harder. “Yeah. Quite a few, actually.”

“I bet that’s fun,” she replied with at least an attempt at cheerfulness.

Spot bit back a laugh. “Oh yeah, great fun.”

“Good, good...” It seemed she had already run out of questions.

Spot took a deep, cleansing breath. He knew his line; he just didn’t want to say it. He gritted his teeth. “How’s Mark?”

His mother huffed. “Don’t call your father—”

“He’s not my father.”

She sighed, just as tired of this game as he was. “He’s doing well. Just got a promotion, actually. We’re planning a little trip to celebrate. God knows we could use a vacation.” She hesitated for a moment. “If you’d like to come...”

Spot raked his fingers through his hair. “I can’t miss school.”

A lame excuse, but an excuse she expected. “Of course, silly me.”

It’s not like  _ Mark _ would want Spot on the vacation, anyway.

“Thanks for the invite, though,” Spot added, just to be polite.

“Of course honey, we always want you around.” The ‘we’ was rather forced, but she actually sounded rather sincere otherwise, for once.

Spot stopped just short of telling her that no,  _ she _ always wanted him around. “Yeah...”

“Do you want to come over for dinner this weekend?” She asked with that flat sort of hope one has when you already know the answer is ‘no’, but you ask anyway.

Spot almost agreed, just to prove her wrong, but the thought of actually going through with it made his stomach turn. “This weekend’s not great, actually...”

“Oh, well maybe next time...”

Spot sighed. “Next time.”

There was an awkward pause before she began to cast around for some half-hearted excuse to end the conversation.

Spot put her out of her misery. “Hey, mom, I’ve gotta go. Dinner.”

She at least had the grace not to sound relieved. “Alright, sweetie. Have a nice night.”

“G’night, mom.”

“Goodnight Sean, I love you.”

The line was dead before he could respond. With a heavy sigh, Spot fell face first onto his bed and buried his face in his pillow.

About twenty minutes later, Spot heard the front door open, and then shut again. “Sean? You home?” his aunt called from downstairs.

Spot rolled over so his voice wasn’t muffled. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“I brought home Chinese.”

God bless Aunt Beth. Spot dragged himself out of bed and headed downstairs. When he got to the kitchen, there was a big paper bag—no doubt full of the promised Chinese food—on the table, and Aunt Beth was pulling forks out of the drawer.

“Hey, Sean,” she greeted him fondly.

“Hey, Beth.”

His exhaustion must have been apparent in his voice, because Beth gave him a funny look. “Are you feeling okay?”

Spot nodded. “Yeah, yeah, just tired.” More emotionally than physically, but true nonetheless

She nodded sympathetically. “It’s been a long week, huh?”

“And it’s only Wednesday.” Spot retrieved two plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter.

Beth chuckled. “I swear, weeks just get longer and longer.”

Spot grunted in agreement, allocating himself some chicken and rice onto a plate.

After loading up her own plate, Beth sat down at the kitchen table. “So, how was school today?”

Spot shrugged. “It was school. Nothing really exciting is happening.”

“How are things going with that project?”

“The biology project?” Spot sat down across from his aunt and began shoveling food into his mouth. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “Not bad,” he said around a mouthful of chicken. “Anthony’s still a jackass, but what can you do?”

Beth exhaled shortly, not quite amused. “Unfortunately, that’s the majority of people.”

Spot grumbled nonsense, rolling his eyes.

Beth chuckled. “But the project is still going well?”

“Yeah, I think we’re gonna get a good grade on it.” Spot sighed. “Sooner it’s over, the better.”


	14. Albert, Play Despacito

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race has a birthday party, and it's chaotic.

Some people don’t care about birthdays. Really, it‘s just another day, except people come and give you presents that you probably don’t want, and there’s cake with too much icing, and you have to stand there like a painfully awkward and gracious statue while everyone sings the birthday song. No one likes the birthday song.

Anthony Luca Higgins was not one of those people.

On any normal weekend, if left to his own devices, he would be asleep until well after noon, but on September twenty-eighth, Race was up by seven o’clock in the morning. He was careful not to wake his parents—no need to ruin someone else’s Saturday morning—and even though the party didn’t start for another eight hours, Race couldn’t help but start getting ready. Like any normal teenage boy, he wasn’t much one for cleaning or organization, but today was an exception in nearly every way. The party would be taking place mostly on the Higgins’ rather large back deck and in the yard, as the weatherman had heralded a nice and sunny day. Even so, mostly from lack of other things to do, Race set about tidying the living room and kitchen, practically bouncing off the walls as he went. At eight fifteen, he made a pot of coffee, intending to leave it ready for his parents, once they woke up, but he ended up having three cups of his own, which further exacerbated the problem of his uncontainable enthusiasm.

Once Mr. and Mrs. Higgins woke up, a fantastic birthday breakfast was had, and then party preparations began in earnest. Mrs. Higgins went about tidying the living room—Race had really just moved things around, not actually cleaning anything—and Mr. Higgins and Race began dispersing copious amounts of pirate themed decorations in the kitchen and out on the deck.

At one o’clock, two men arrived in a large van with the logo for ‘A Total Jump, Inc.’ emblazoned on the side. Race was wildly excited, practically vibrating as he asked way too many questions about how something so simple as an inflatable pirate ship worked.

Mr. Higgins left to pick up the ice cream cake just before two o’clock, while Mrs. Higgins ordered a half-dozen pizzas.

Surprising no one, Albert—who lived on the street just behind theirs, with the backyards of the two houses meeting in the middle—arrived forty minutes early. Race dragged him through the house, and the yard, loudly and smugly pointing out every single boat they had.

Albert nodded solemnly. “That’s a lot of boats.”

“I toldja. Boat stuff.”

“That is what gay pirates do, after all.” Albert batted at the pirate-themed tarp over the picnic table outside.

“Why specifically _ gay _ pirates?” Race asked, nabbing a foam cutlass from a nearby plastic bucket.

Albert shrugged. “Straight pirates do pussy stuff.”

Race frowned. “Gross, but what does that have to do with boats?”

Albert groaned. “Idiot.” He snatched a cookie from the snack table and shoved it in his mouth.

“No you,” Race quipped back happily, smacking at his shoulders with the foam sword.

Albert slapped the blade away playfully, and this quickly devolved into a duel, during which they nearly knocked over the snack table and were lovingly scolded by Mrs. Higgins.

Albert was Race’s oldest friend, so he’d been a presence in the Higgins household just as long as Race had and was treated as somewhat of a second son. Jack followed soon after, and quickly became just as close, resulting in a triad of nigh inseparable idiots.

Jack, as it turned out, was also the next one to show up to the party, along with Charlie.

“I was told there would be boat stuff,” Jack announced as soon as he crossed the threshold, and Mr. Higgins failed to keep from laughing.

“Hell yeah, there’s boat stuff!” Race shouted happily, throwing an eye patch towards him and plopping a pirate hat on Charlie’s head.

“You see, Crutchie,” Jack said, leaning down to speak directly to his little brother, “it’s not a party without boat stuff.”

Charlie wrinkled up his nose in disgust.

Race nodded sagely. “No self respecting man would be seen at a party without boat stuff.”

Albert clapped a hand onto Charlie’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to them, kid. They’re crazy.”

He led Charlie away, and Jack pulled Race into a hug.

“Happy birthday, man!”

Race wrapped his arms tight around him enthusiastically, squeezing until Jack’s back popped. “I’m an adult, bitch!”

“Oh, god, save us all,” Jack laughed.

Race grinned. “C’mon, we got a bounce boat.”

Jack’s eyes widened to the size of small moons. “Bounce boat?”

“Yeah, c’mon!” Race bounced a little, letting off some pent up energy before darting for the sliding glass door in the kitchen that let out onto the deck.

Finch and Jojo arrived together a few minutes later. They barreled into the backyard and were absolutely delighted to find Race in a bounce boat.

“Holy shit!” Finch yelled, giggling excitedly.

“C’mon in; the water’s fine!” Race crowed cheerfully, ricocheting off the main mast.

Jojo vaulted up onto the boat instead of using the actual entrance and ended up crashing into Race. Race squealed as he was knocked to the ‘deck’, bouncing and knocking back into Jojo.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack exclaimed. “Don’t break the birthday boy.” He ‘subtly’ checked out Jojo’s ass. “And who might you be?”

“This is Jojo, he’s a dance buddy.” Race introduced from flat on his back on the floor of the bounce boat.

“Please to meet you, Jojo.” Jack offered a hand and a winning smile. “Jack Kelly.”

Jojo stood up from knocking Race over and shook Jack’s hand, smiling right back. “Nice to meetcha.”

Finch climbed into the boat, then, and immediately flopped on top of Race, who wrapped all his limbs around him like some sort of noodley sloth. “Hey Finch, what’s up?”

“Happy birthday, loser!”

“I’m a grown up now!” Race yelled.

Finch snorted. “We’re in a bounce house.”

“Bounce _ boat _.” Race corrected.

With a snicker and a roll of his eyes, Finch got up and helped Race to his feet. Jack was leaning up against the side of the boat, feeling Jojo’s shirt and asking where he got it. Race stifled a snort of laughter. Poor Jojo was completely oblivious, and Jack was a shameless flirt—a delightful and very entertaining combination. Fortunately for Jack, the dance boys were very tactile, so Jojo didn’t think anything about Jack’s hand on his chest. As for Jack biting his lip and slowly looking Jojo up and down, well, Race had no explanation for Jojo’s innocence of that.

Finch noticed and shot Race a quizzical look.

Race snickered. “Jojo is blind, I swear to god,” he whispered to Finch.

That’s when Elmer, who had apparently arrived while Finch had Race pinned to the deck, climbed into the bounce boat wearing two eye patches and shouting, “This is a mutiny!”

Race laughed, and launched himself towards him, aiming low and knocking Elmer’s legs out from under him. Elmer crashed into Finch, and the three of them went down in a heap. They were joined almost immediately by Tommy Boy, who came barreling out of the house and bounded over the edge of the boat rather than going through the proper entrance, not unlike Jojo had done, and the six boys dissolved into a tangle of limbs as everyone tried to suffocate the birthday boy. The birthday boy was, of course, delighted by this turn of events, and only half heartedly attempted to escape. He’d always dreamed of being at the bottom of a pile of beautiful men.

* * *

“Race this very well might be the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Jojo said, looking apprehensively at the bottle rocket in his hand.

It was well past dark, and—after lighting a relatively large fire in the stone firepit out in the backyard and giving strict instructions _ not _to burn the neighborhood down—Mr. and Mrs. Higgins had gone to bed.

After hot dogs and s’mores and a good number of leaves and paper pirate hats had been roasted, Race had produced no less than thirty-five bottle rockets, and divvied them up between the seven of them.

“Now, the point is to _ not _ get hit, obviously, but don’t be a pussy about it and miss on purpose to give your target an easy time.” Race explained, and Jojo began to huff about ‘not supposed to set the neighborhood on fire’, and ‘could get really hurt’. Race whined. “You already said ‘no’ to hot-rock tag!”

Jack, who was more than okay with the concept of bottle rocket wars, sidled up to Race’s back, fully crotch-to-ass, and whispered threateningly but strangely seductively in his ear, “You’re dead, birthday boy.”

Race elbowed him in the stomach, laughing. “Fuck off, we haven’t started yet!” He turned his attention back to the group. “Okay so d’you guys wanna target, or just free for all and see how many kills you can get?”

Tommy Boy raised his hand. “What about teams?”

“Hmmm, we have an odd number though,” Finch mused.

Jack, seemingly already bored of tormenting Race, tossed his elbow up onto Jojo’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he told him. “I’ll protect you, anyway.”

Finch rolled his eyes so hard.

“Okay, well, just for that, I’m making Jojo and Jack team captains,” Race declared, and Jack squawked indignantly.

“Jojo gets to pick first.” 

“I pick Finch.”

Now it was Race who was indignant. “I am _ right _ here!”

“I pick Albert!” Jack shouted over him.

Race huffed, winding up to be deeply insulted, but was quickly placated when Jojo picked him next.

“Told ya’ you’re going down,” Jack said, tossing him an evil wink.

Race stuck his tongue out at Jack, and the choosing continued. Jack took Tommy Boy, and that left Elmer for Jojo, giving his team the majority advantage.

“We won’t need it,” Jack assured them.

“You may talk big, pretty boy, but we both know that I can take you any day,” Race retorted, barely holding onto a toothy, wicked smile.

“Yeah, you can _ take me _, alright.”

Albert rolled his eyes heavily. “Can we do the fight already so I can leave before you two decide to fuck?”

Jack snickered. “Don’t be jealous, Al.”

“Yeah, it’s okay; you can join,” Race said in a wildly mocking tone, just barely veiled by assurance. “The more the merrier, right Jack?”

“Oh yes, definitely.” This time, Jack’s wink was unmistakably directed at Jojo.

Jojo, the poor dear, remained clueless.

Finch brandished his bottle rockets. “Are we gonna shoot each other with fireworks or what?” he demanded.

“Yes! Thirty count and then open fire.” Race waved in a general shooing motion, and the boys dispersed, one team running towards the deck, and the other spreading into the further parts of the yard.

Race began a slow, suspenseful countdown as the boys took up their positions. As soon as he hit zero, every single one of them, regardless of team, moved to aim their rockets at Race. He shrieked about treason and bolted, heading away from the house and further into the darkness of the back yard.

* * *

By midnight, the boys—still rather sooty from battle—had made their way inside and up to Race’s room, where they laid out sleeping bags and settled into certainly not sleep. Luckily, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins’ room was on the ground floor on the other side of the house, so they didn’t have to worry too much about being quiet.

Race’s suggestions of Truth or Dare or Never Have I Ever were initially both met with groans and dismissal, but he insisted, “It’s a slumber party! It’s tradition!”

“Fine.” Tommy Boy took the bait. “Birthday boy, truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Race replied, grinning.

Tommy Boy narrowed his eyes in deep thought. “I dare you to ding-dong-ditch the neighbors, but you can’t run away; you can only do back-handsprings.”

Race let out a huff of laughter and crawled out of his sleeping bag. “Am I going alone or do I get witnesses?”

Elmer snorted. “Oh, I’m witnessing this.”

“Hell yeah!”

Clad in pirate themed pajamas—bought specifically for tonight—Race charged downstairs and out the front door.

* * *

“Okay, Finch, truth or dare?” Race asked.

Finch sighed defeatedly. “Truth.”

“If ya gotta make out with someone who’s in this room right now, who’s it gonna be?”

“Jojo,” Finch said with surprisingly little hesitation. “Tommy’s, like, an infant—”

Tommy Boy let out an indignant cry in protest.

“—you’d probably fall in love with me or something, and I don’t know the rest of you people.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not already in love with you,” Race quipped as Jack said, “Your loss, I’m definitely the best kisser here.”

Finch rolled his eyes. “Tommy, truth or dare?”

“Truth!”

Finch nodded thoughtfully. “Have you ever cheated on a test?”

Tommy Boy pouted. “That’s not a fun truth.”

“Sounds like something a cheater would say,” Jack gasped.

“What no I would not! I don’t!” Tommy Boy protested loudly.

“Oh, pipe down.” Jack waved a hand at him. “Birthday boy here runs a whole cheating business. Ain’t nobody judging you here.”

“It’s not cheating,” Race replied, heavy with dignity. “It’s specialized covert resourcing.”

“It’s cheating,” Albert said.

“No, it isn’t! Just like how going out with five girls at a time but not labeling any as ‘girlfriend’ isn’t cheating.”

Albert sputtered angrily. “That’s a _ completely _ different situation!”

Tommy Boy sighed. “Uh...Elmer, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Elmer said, and Race rolled his eyes. 

“You’re all cowards.”

“Have you ever kissed a boy?” Tommy Boy asked.

Race snorted, and quickly stifled himself in a bowl of popcorn. Elmer remained completely straight-faced for a couple moments for bursting into hysterical laughter. The rest of the boys were slightly confused by this reaction, but Jack cast a knowing look over Elmer and onto Race.

Elmer pretended to think about it. “You know, I can’t recall. Must not have been very memorable.”

“Or you were too fuckin’ high to remember your own name, let alone what happened!” Race retorted.

Elmer just laughed. “You were higher than me.”

“And your point is...?”

“Wait wait wait.” Tommy Boy interrupted, looking back and forth between Elmer and Race.

Jack snickered, and Albert rolled his eyes.

“I think it’s your turn, Elmer,” Race prompted.

Elmer grinned. “Albert, truth or dare.”

“Dare.”

Race whooped appreciatively. “Finally!”

Elmer’s grin widened. “Dare ya to kiss the birthday boy.”

Race whooped again, and Albert groaned unhappily.

“Gotta be a real kiss, too,” Elmer added. “On the lips, at least five seconds, with feeling.”

Albert groaned louder. “What’s the penalty if I refuse?”

“You’ll make Race sad,” Jack said, “and it’s his birthday, and we’ll all hate you.”

Race pouted dramatically to support Jack’s statement.

With another overly dramatic groan, Albert leaned over and haphazardly smashed his lips against Race’s. Race responded enthusiastically, immediately dissolving into more whining and moaning than was at all reasonable, making as much of a production out of it as he could to further Albert’s torment. He was careful not to push the physicality of the thing more than Albert offered, not wanting to cross a line and actually upset his friend. Albert waited five seconds exactly before pulling away, looking just so done.

Race snickered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Man, I pity those five girls of yours. Like kissing a dead fish.”

Albert huffed. “_ Jack _, truth or dare.”

Jack grinned. “Dare.”

“Dare ya to strip tease the birthday boy.”

Race giggled. “Damn, so much attention. I should have birthdays more often.”

Jack stood up, still addressing Albert. “You’re relying on the dignity of a very shameless man.”

Race interrupted, crying out, “No! The sleeping bag counts as a layer!”

“Fine.” Jack gave Race his best bedroom eyes and pulled the sleeping bag up to his shoulders like a cocoon. “Albert, play Despacito.”

* * *

“Never have I ever been on a boat.”

“But you were on a boat earlier today—“

“Shut up, Race. I mean a real boat.” Albert said.

Every single person took a drink of their root beer, except of course Albert, who was very proud of himself for tripping the others up.

Tommy Boy was next, laying on his stomach with his chin propped on his crossed arms. “Never have I ever been adopted.” He said without lifting his head.

“That’s targeting!” Race protested.

“Shut up I’m tired,” the younger boy whined.

Grumbling, Race and Jack each took a drink.

Finch spoke up. “Never have I ever slept with a guy.”

“Targeting!” Race protested louder and whinier. He, Jack, and Elmer each took a drink.

Jack grinned deviously at Race. “Never have I ever bottomed.”

Race practically screamed in indignance before finishing his already-almost-empty root beer, and chucking the can at Jack’s head.

“Race is out,” Jojo chuckled. “Never have I ever screwed anyone who is currently in this room.”

“We could change that.” Jack winked at him as he took a drink of his root beer.

Elmer drank as well.

“Wait...” Tommy Boy glanced between Jack and Elmer. “You two?”

Jack snorted. “Nah, we’ve both fucked Race.”

Elmer flushed the tiniest bit at the blatant admittance in front of people he didn’t really know, and Race just giggled.

“Race will gladly get fucked by anything with a pulse,” Albert explained. “It’s a problem.”

“Not _ anything _ with a pulse,” Race argued.

“Any human male of a reasonable age with a pulse.”

“There’s exceptions! I know plenty of people I wouldn’t wanna fuck.”

“Such as?”

Race hesitated for far too long, and all his friends burst into laughter.

“God, you’re such a _ slut! _” Finch jeered, smacking him with a pillow.

“Nooo, it’s my birthday!” He wailed.

Jojo laughed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You can’t be mean to me!”

“I hate to tell you this, but your birthday ended,” Jack checked his phone, “an hour and a half ago.”

“Ope, time to kill him.” Albert shoved a pillow over Race’s face.

Race flailed, whiny protests muffled by the pillow, as Finch laughed, and Albert shifted so he could put more of his weight on the pillow. “Shh, time to go.”

* * *

All in all, Race’s birthday turned out to be a rousing success. The boys barely slept—as should be the case at any slumber party—and everyone went home a strange mix of exhausted and hyped up on too much birthday cake. Race wouldn’t let anyone leave without taking at least one pirate hat with them, and Jack took four, all stacked up and barely balanced on his head. As a day-after-your-birthday present, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins let Race go back upstairs and crash for a few hours, before clean up started. He trudged upstairs, and tripped over his sleeping bag before toppling into bed, asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. As a second day-after-your-birthday present, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins let him sleep through clean up.


	15. Cigarettes and Spraypaint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ 'Cause this is filler...filler night... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, Theories of Conflict is officially a novel.  
Fuck. 

On Monday, Mrs. McNamera was kind enough to remind her students that they had a draft of their paper due on Friday, and Spot was kind enough to groan internally instead of out loud. A draft being due meant having to interact with Race. Interacting with Race meant having to be civil. Being civil meant having to put up with whatever bullshit Race decided to throw at him without losing his shit and knocking the dumbass’ teeth out. God, did he want to knock that dumbass’ teeth out. The last thing a person like Racetrack Higgins deserved was a stupid cute smile, and yet he had one, and Spot hated it.

Once the bell rang, everyone packed up and headed to the door, most chatting with their project partners as they went. Race, however, remained at his desk, very focused on trying to balance a pencil on his finger. Spot watched, letting his hatred consume him for a moment.

“Hey,” he said eventually, when it became clear that Race was not going to tune in on his own.

Race startled, dropping the pencil. He looked up at Spot, frowning. “What?”

Spot took a deep breath. “We should talk about the draft.”

“Yeah, okay. What about it?” Race picked up the pencil again.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “We should work on it sometime this week.”

“Yeeaaah, like when?”

Spot gritted his teeth. Fuck Race. “Wednesday work for you?”

“Uh, sure.” Race looked around, seeming to only just now properly notice the room had emptied. H stood up, dumping what was on his desk into his backpack. “You wanna meet somewhere after school?”

“I guess.” Spot stood as well and shrugged his backpack over one shoulder. “Starbucks again, or—?”

“Eh, probably somewhere quieter. ‘S hard to really focus if there’s so much shit going on, y’know?”

Spot huffed. “You got a better idea?”

Race shrugged. “I dunno, the library is renovating their study rooms right now, so that wouldn’t work...”

Spot really, really didn’t want to say what he said next, but Race was right; they needed a quiet place to work on the paper, so Spot gritted his teeth and suggested, “We could work at my place.”

Race’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and then his eyes narrowed in dramatized suspicion. “Is this just a not-so-sneaky plan to get me alone so you can murder me?”

“Yes,” Spot deadpanned, not entirely sure in that moment that it wasn’t true.

Race snorted. “Sounds fun.” He pulled his backpack on. “So, after school then?”

“Sure.”

Without a conclusion, or a goodbye, Race headed for the door. Spot wouldn’t have expected any different.

* * *

After school, Spot found himself loitering on a street corner with three of his friends, wondering what he was doing with his life. Vince had been talking about his most recent string of hookups, and Spot had basically checked out of the conversation, disinterested.

Myron was complaining, “Man, you could leave some for the rest of us. You must’ve fucked your way through the entire school by now.”

Vince rolled his eyes. “What about you, Spot?”

Spot shrugged. “What about me?”

“You got any girls lined up?”

He scoffed. “You forget, I’m gay.”

Hot Shot, Spot’s oldest friend, lightly smacked him on the arm. “Guys, then. Come on, Spot, don’t be shy.”

“No,” Spot told them. “No girls, no guys.”

“No one at all?” Vince asked.

“Nope.”

Myron spoke up. “Well who would’ja want if ya did?”

“What the fuck—I don’t know,” Spot nearly laughed out of frustration. Couldn’t a guy just graduate high school in peace?

“Oh come on,” Vince agreed. “No way you’re not into  _ anyone _ in the whole school.”

“Not my fault you’re all gross,” Spot jibed, hoping they’d drop it soon.

“What about, uh, that guy Patrick?” Hot Shot joined the bullshitting.

“I don’t even know who that is.”

Hot Shot laughed. “Y’okay fair enough. Uhhhhh there’s a hot guy in our history class. At least I think he’s hot? I don’t really know...”

Spot did a mental tally of everyone in history class. “You mean the blond guy or the dude who wears eyeliner?”

“Either?”

“Ehhh, not really my type.”

“Oh hey, wait, what about that really twinky one?” Vince said. “‘Anthony’ or something.”

“Oh yeeaaah.” Myron nodded. “He’s like, such a slut.”

Spot’s eyes widened. They had to be kidding. “Absolutely not.”

“No, come on, he’s not bad, right?” Myron said. “Don’t you have a thing for blonds?”

“What the—...when have I ever said that?” Spot shook his head. “Nah, he’s my fucking project partner in biology, and he’s the most annoying piece of shit on the planet, I swear to god.”

Hot Shot snickered. “Is he annoying cause you think he’s hot?”

“If you think he’s so hot, why don’t  _ you _ fuck him?” Spot snarled, then took a breath before he protested far too much. “Nah, he’s annoying because he never shuts up, and he’s rude, and he’s  _ still _ mad at me for something I did in third grade.”

“What did you do in third grade?” Vince asked.

“Punched him in the face.”

Hot Shot snorted, amused. “Sounds about right.”

“It was  _ ten fucking years _ ago,” Spot lamented. “Like, Jesus Christ, get over it.”

“You sure he’s still sore over that, and not something from like, now?”

Myron nodded. “You  _ are _ kind of a dick.”

At that, Spot did laugh. “Well, both.”

Spot was a lot of things, but naïve wasn’t one of them. He recognized his part in the mess between him and Race. He was far from innocent, but at least he tried to make things bearable, unlike Race, who seemed to get off on throwing gasoline on the flames.

Plus, maybe Race was a  _ little _ annoying because he was hot.

* * *

Race was bored. There was never anything to do on Monday nights. Sometimes they did family game night, but tonight Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were out on a date. Mr. Higgins had come home with flowers and told Mrs. Higgins to ‘get pretty’ cause he wanted to ‘take his girl out’. Race was fortunate enough to have parents who were still very much in love, and he thought it was just the cutest goddamn thing. However, left alone in the house, he was painfully bored and restless. After about twenty minutes of ‘how many things can I bounce this ball off of before it hits me in the face’, Race couldn’t stand it, so he got in his car and drove around to park in Albert’s driveway. He tried to walk on nothing but cracks in the sidewalk on his way up to the porch, where he began knocking on the door to the beat of We Will Rock You.

Ms. Knowles opened the door with a confused expression. “Oh. Hi, Tony.”

Race offered her one of his most charmingly adorable smiles. “Hey, Ms. K. How’s it going?”

“Good. I assume you’re looking for Albert?”

He nodded.

“Okay, well, come on in.”

Race had known Albert’s mother literally since before he knew his own. Of course, he knew her first as Mrs. DaSilva, but she and Albert’s dad had gotten divorced when Race and Albert were ten, and she took her maiden name back.

Race followed her into the house, absently fidgeting as he trotted down the hall towards the stairs. He found Albert in his room, playing some game on the computer with his headphones on.

A rather Grinch-with-a-wonderful-awful-idea-ish grin spread across Race’s face, and he snuck into the room, much the way a large, pink, cartoon cat might. He tiptoed towards Albert’s bed, just barely out of his line of sight, and carefully picked up his pillow before sneaking towards Albert himself. Once he got right up behind him, he let out a loud war cry and slapped the pillow down on the top of Albert’s head.

Albert shot up, whirled around, and punched Race in the jaw. Luckily, as he was mostly unsure of his attacker’s exact location, he didn’t quite land a square hit. Not expecting such retaliation, Race spiraled to the floor on impact and landed cackling.

“Jesus Christ, dude!” Albert shouted, chest heaving. He took off his headphones and set them on the desk.

Race dissolved into giggles. “Hi, Albert.”

“What the fuck is the big idea?”

“What? I’m just saying ‘hi’!”

“Fuck you.”

Race stood up, still grinning. “I mean, if you want to.”

Albert rolled his eyes. “Gross. Why are you here?”

“Why are  _ you  _ here?” Race plowed on before Albert had a chance to respond to his dumb question. “I’m bored, and Mom and Dad are out, and I’m  _ bored _ .”

“God, okay,  _ okay _ ,” Albert groaned. “What do you want?”

Race shrugged, looking absently around Albert’s room. “I dunno, let’s do something.”

* * *

That’s how Race found himself loitering on a street corner with one of his friends, not wondering what he was doing with his life, because he’s Race and he didn’t care. He kicked at a chunk of loose asphalt that had broken off the edge of a pothole, and watched it skitter into the street.

“Turning eighteen is such a racket,” he complained. “It’s not like I can drink now—legally I mean. There’s not really anything that changes, ‘cept I can go to big boy prison or buy a lottery ticket.” A little light kicked up behind his eyes, ushering in a look that Albert knew all too well, and deeply mistrusted.

“Whatever you’re thinking,  _ no _ ,” Albert said.

Race sputtered indignantly. “Whaaat? I didn’t even say anything yet!”

“No means no, Race.”

He whined, twisting as if he could physically dodge Albert’s refusal. “Al come onnnnn.”

Albert groaned loudly. “ _ What!? _ ”

Race decided this was a ‘yes’, and proceeded to drag Albert towards the car without actually explaining. Five minutes later, they were in the Circle K, with a fistful of cash and a pack of Newports on the counter.

The bored cashier man looked at them and asked, “Can I see some ID?”

“You  _ sure fucking can! _ ” Race excitedly slammed his driver’s license down on the counter next to the money and cigarettes.

That at least drew a chuckle out of the cashier, who took a look at it and added, “Hey, happy birthday, kid.”

Race was smiling so enthusiastically that his face very well might crack in half. “Thanks, mister.”

The second they left the store, Albert unamusedly said, “I thought you quit.”

Race shrugged, tilting his head sideways. “Yeah, sort of.” He pulled the cellophane off and stuffed it into his pocket before flipping the pack open. “Mom doesn’t like it, so I was trying.” He pulled out a cigarette and placed it at the corner of his mouth, speaking around it with the ease of one well practiced in such a thing. “But I’m ‘all grown up now’—her words, not mine—so I figure, why not?” Another shrug as he put the pack in his pocket and pulled out a lighter. Race lit the cigarette, taking a drag and smiling contently for a moment before pouting at Albert. “You’re judging me again.”

Albert pulled a face. “I’m not gonna judge you for smoking. I do it too, sometimes. You know that.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got your judgy face on.” Race wiggled his finger at Albert’s face, indicating the judgy-ness.

“Not, my judgy face is like this.” Albert waited until Race was good and distracted by his judgy face to steal the cigarette right out of his mouth and take a drag from it.

Race gasped, gesturing at Albert disapprovingly. “Hey, that’s mine!”

“You got a whole pack. Calm down.” Albert handed it back.

Race grumbled, replacing the cigarette in his mouth. “Okay, so now what? We could go buy fireworks; that’s restricted till eighteen, too.”

“Spraypaint,” Albert added without explanation.

Race gasped. “ _ Spraypaint _ .”

* * *

“Race, for god’s sake, we can’t graffiti Spot’s house. We don’t even know where he lives!”

Along with spraypaint, they had stopped and picked up Jack, who was being much less fun than Race had hoped.

“I think we should graffiti the house next to Spot’s and plant the paint cans in his yard,” Albert suggested.

“Yeees!” Race agreed enthusiastically, despite their not knowing where the house next to Spot’s was, either.

Jack and Albert shared a look of ‘this idiot wouldn’t have survived to adulthood without us’.

“Alright, what are we actually doing with the spraypaint?” Albert asked.

Jack sighed. “I don’t suppose we get to do actual art?”

“As long as it somehow ruins Spot’s day, you can paint whatever you want. Now how are we going to find out where he lives?” His eyes lit up as an idea struck, and both of his companions cringed in apprehension. “School records! I bet his address is on file.”

Albert rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you guys call a truce or something?”

Race twisted his mouth into something between a pout and a frown, but mostly just a weird squiggle. “Yeah.”

Jack spoke up. “Um, guys?”

He was largely ignored, as Albert went on, “Then why would you try to sabotage it? Do you have a death wish?”

“Guys.”

“No, he won’t know it’s us!” Race protested.

“He knew the bird was you!” Albert shot back.

“Guys!” Jack all but shouted. “Am I the only one who’s going to notice that Spot Conlon, Hot Shot, Vince, and fucking what’s-his-name are on the street corner we are rapidly approaching?”

Race was about to retort that Spot only knew the bird was his cause Race has very distinct handwriting, but stopped short at Jack’s interruption to turn wide eyed in the direction he had indicated.

Albert scoffed. “That...makes sense. That’s totally the group he’d end up with.”

“He and Hot Shot have been friends since, like, forever,” Jack pointed out. “Seriously, what’s that other guy’s name?”

“Isn’t it like, Marvin or something?” Race offered.

“Man, I don’t fuckin’ know,” Albert said. “Who cares? Let’s just go.”

“Or...” Race began, but his sentence was derailed as Jack grabbed the back of his collar and started walking the other way. He grumbled and pouted as Jack dragged him back to the car.

“We aren’t getting into a fist fight with Spot Conlon and his goons on a street corner.”

“But it’s my  _ birthday _ .” Race whined, and Jack scoffed.

“It distinctly is  _ not _ .”

Race refused to drive home as they ‘hadn’t finished their mission yet’, so Albert pinned him while Jack stole his keys, and they tossed him—wildly indignant—into the passenger’s seat. Any normal kidnapping he would've been thrown into the back, but Race had a thing about being in the backseat, and his friends were very considerate.

To placate their whiny captive, Jack pulled into the parking lot behind the shut down rubber factory on the edge of town, and they sprayed ‘Spot Conlon sucks’ in bright yellow spray paint.

Race snickered, “I wish,” and Jack and Albert groaned, throwing their paint cans at him.

So far, being an ‘adult’ wasn’t too bad.


	16. "Fuck Me Yourself, You Coward"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race goes to Spot's aunt's house to work on their paper, and Race breaks a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally done with school for the semester! Hopefully I will be able to focus more on all these crazy stories, now.

Every other Wednesday—those when there wasn’t youth group—was pizza night in the Higgins household. Sometimes they’d get tons of cheese and all sorts of toppings and sauces and make their own however they pleased with pizza dough that Mr. Higgins made from scratch. Sometimes they’d go out to the weird, bougie, ‘gourmet’ pizza place one town over. Sometimes they’d order three different pizzas from three different chains and see which got delivered the fastest, which was the hottest coming out of the box, and which was the greasiest. Tonight, Papa John’s won for speed, Marco’s won for temperature, and Domino’s—as always—won for greasiness.

Halfway through his eighth slice of pizza, Race made that ‘mhh’ noise that one makes when remembering something you need to say while your mouth is full.

“We have a draft of our project due Monday, so I’m gonna go to Spot’s after dinner to work on it.”

His parents looked at each other and frowned, and Race waved his hand dismissively, amending. “Well, his aunt’s house, but you know.”

“I...don’t think that’s a great idea, Tony,” his mother said with that air of incredulity one gets when they have absolutely no idea what another is thinking.

“Nah, he called a truce, remember?” Race assured her before taking another bite of pizza.

“He’s still been violent with you more than once,” his father pointed out, scowling. “Physically  _ and _ verbally.”

Mrs. Higgins jumped in again with, “Is anyone else going to be there?”

Race nodded. “‘S after dinner, so his aunt’s probably home.”

“Have you met his aunt?”

“Nooo...”

“Your mother is right,” Mr. Higgins concluded. “I don’t think you should be alone with this kid.”

Race let out a frustrated huff, which flipped his bangs up for a moment. “It’s fine. We’re just gonna study, not,” he flailed a little, casting around for a worse alternative, “go join some human trafficking ring.”

Mrs. Higgins let out a noise of pure indignation. “Excuse me? That’s not what we’re saying at all. We’re trying to keep you from getting hurt.”

Race flailed more. “I’m not gonna get hurt! We have a truce! If he tries anything, I’ll club him with my laptop—how about that?”

His parents shared a weighted look.

“Tony,” Mr. Higgins began, “if something happens—”

“Ohmygodnothing’sgonnahappen,” he whined, flopping back in his chair. “It’s just project work, okay? We don’t have a rumble planned, we’re not gonna kill each other, just studying. I promise. If at any point we aren’t doing school stuff, I’ll hit him with my notebook and come straight home, okay?”

Another weighted look between his parents, and Mr. Higgins sighed. “Fine. The moment anything resembling not-school happens, you come home.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Race knocked on—well, kicked, really—the front door that corresponded to the address Spot had texted him earlier that evening. He shuffled, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack, which was full of whatever one might need during a study session with their nemesis.

He waited a minute, then kicked again. Unfortunately, the door opened at the same time, and he kicked Spot right in the shin.

“Ow! What the fuck, dude?” Spot growled, glaring at him in disbelief.

Race’s eyes widened, and he sputtered into laughter. “Shit, sorry.”

Spot grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘fucking idiot’. “Come in, I guess.”

“You sure?” Race asked, dipping his voice in polite concern. “I thought I’d stay out here and you’d stay in there, and we can just talk through a crack in the wall, like Pyramus and Thisbe. I get to be Thisbe.”

“I’m closing the door in five seconds, if you don’t come in.”

Race snickered and stepped through the doorway.

Spot’s aunt’s house was a lot smaller than Race’s, with slightly outdated features and a generally dingy atmosphere. Whitish tile in the entry led onto low, grayish-beige carpet. The walls were beige. It was like neutral city.

Spot headed over to a desk by the wall, on which was a clunky desktop computer. “You bring your laptop?” he asked.

Race nodded. “Yup, all prepped for clubbing.”

That drew a single chuckle out of Spot. “Right. Well, I think we’ve got plenty of info for a first draft, but it’s organized like shit.”

A delicate chirping noise came wafting down the nearby stairs. Race frowned at the staircase and, without asking, moved to investigate, dropping his backpack by the couch as he passed.

“Hey, where are you going?” Spot called after him.

“Up the stairs. What—you blind now?” Race replied, taking the steps two at a time.

At the top of the stairs, Race found a dim, narrow hallway with only three doors. He paused for half a second and turned to the left—it sounded like the noise was coming from that direction. He followed it down to the last door and invited himself inside and found himself in a plain, boring bedroom that he guessed was Spot’s because of the small pile of men’s clothes in the corner. Race was way more interested in the birdcage pushed up against the wall opposite the bed. Frowning curiously, he crossed the room to investigate.

Spot appeared in the doorway. “Bitch, you can’t just wander around my house. What’s wrong with you?”

“You invited me in,” Race retorted, as if that solved everything. He peered into the birdcage, and laughed. “Shit, you actually  _ kept _ the bird?”

Spot folded his arms across his chest. “Of course I fucking kept the bird. What was I supposed to do? Leave her for dead? I’m not a monster.” He gestured to her. “By the way, her name is Lizzie, and she loves me.”

Race scoffed. “I liked my name better.”

“Can we please just work on the project so we can get the draft done and you out of my house as soon as possible?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Race waved his hand dismissively, now curious about the rest of the room. To be in the heart of the lair of one’s enemy is such a rare opportunity, he didn’t dare skip over it.Spot’s room was basically boring. He had a twin bed shoved into the corner, a plain bedside table, the birdcage, and nothing else. It appeared to be nothing more than a place he slept.

“Damn, it’s like a hospital room in here.” Race looked around distastefully. He was not fond of hospital rooms.

“You are more than welcome to leave.” Spot gestured out the door.

“How generous.” Race sneered. He moved past Spot to the door, ‘accidentally’ knocking into his shoulder as he went.

Spot sneered back. “So, the project?”

“No, where the hell’s your aunt?” Race asked instead as they headed back down the stairs.

“At work.”

“It’s eight p.m.”

“She’s a nurse.”

Race paused for a moment, looking at Spot suspiciously. Maybe this  _ was _ a not-so-subtle plan to get him alone and murder him.

“What?” Spot asked. “You got a problem with nurses?”

Race’s mouth twisted somewhere between a cringe and a smile, and he briefly reached up to scratch at the side of his ribcage, where another jagged scar was hidden.

After the crash, Race had spent weeks in the hospital. His father died right off, and by all rights Race should have, as well. He was torn nearly to ribbons, and broken all over. Little boys and semi trucks don’t mix well. As his mother wasn’t around and his father’s parents refused to acknowledge he existed, Race was alone. For days, the doctors thought he was going to die. No one ever said it to him, but one night, when they thought he was sleeping, he had heard a nurse say it. As the second week passed, they promised him he would live, but feared he would be at least partially paralyzed. A different nurse—not the one who said he was dying—called him their ‘miracle boy’. When he was discharged from the hospital and taken by the social worker who smiled too much, he was still more plaster-cast than human, and it would be months of physical therapy before he could walk again.

“Not too fond of the whole ‘hospital’ thing.”

Spot shrugged. “That’s fair.”

Another cringe smile, and Race headed for the couch.

“So,” Spot sighed, resuming his place at the desk with the computer, “the project.”

“Yeah,” Race pulled out his laptop and his notebook, dropping them on the coffee table.

“I think we should focus more on brood parasitism in the intro, rather than putting the overview of parent offspring conflict theory there. Makes more sense to start with our actual topic and move into the theory from there.”

Race nodded, absently scrolling through their shared google doc. He wasn’t properly focusing though, much too distracted by the unfamiliar environment around him. The house was very different from his, smaller, darker, everything felt kinda brown and narrow.

“Why’s your computer a dinosaur?”

Spot laughed, and Race involuntarily thought that it was a really nice sound.

“ _ My _ computer is non-existent,” Spot clarified. “Aunt Beth’s computer is a dinosaur because she barely needs or uses it.”

“Yeah, but that thing’s a museum piece.” Race got up from the couch and walked over towards the desk. “Looks like it should still use dial-up.”

“Does, doesn’t it?” Spot sat back in his chair. “So, what do you think?”

Race leaned sideways against the desk, looking at the computer. “I think we need snacks if we’re going to work properly.”

Spot glared at him, but got up and headed to the kitchen. He rooted around in the pantry for a minute, then threw a bag of trail mix at Race and headed back towards the desk.

Race fumbled and dropped it. “This isn’t snacks.” Despite his complaining, he picked the bag up on his way back to the couch and opened it as he sat down, sideways on the couch with his legs stretched out.

Spot dragged his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “Okay, what’s your deal? You wanted to go someplace quiet because you couldn’t focus in Starbucks, and now you’re on my couch eating trail mix.”

“It’s shitty trail mix,” Race said around a mouthful of peanuts and cashews.

“Not my problem.”

“It distinctly is, it’s your trail mix!”

Spot was right though; Race  _ was _ distracted. In fact, unbeknownst to him, Spot was doing most of the distracting, himself. Alone together in a dim house, Race was becoming more and more aware of Spot—just in general, but mostly in how irritatingly attractive he was. He had on a dark red t-shirt, and it was just the right amount of tight they made it very obvious that he was just entirely ripped. Race frowned. It was annoying and distracting, not to mention that now he knew he had a nice laugh, and that was even worse.

Spot narrowed his eyes at him. “What?”

Shit, he’d been staring.

“What?” Race parroted.

Spot stared back at him just long enough for it to be a little weird before saying, “Do you want me to reformat the paper like I suggested, or do you have another idea?”

Race huffed, crossing his arms and wiggling further down into the couch. “Do whatever.”

He was busy wondering what Spot’s hair smelled like and being angry that the thought even crossed his mind. Spot scoffed and rolled his eyes, then turned back to the computer and started making edits. Race scowled at Spot’s hands as he typed, and then sat up, determined to distract himself. You would think he’d have tried to actually work on the project, keep himself occupied that way, but instead he began picking the raisins out of the trail mix and flicking them at Spot, trying to land them in his hair. He knew this was a bad idea, but still he continued.

“I still think this is a dumb project. There’s so many other actually interesting things that have to do with biology.”  _ Like the science of why you’re so fucking hot and it’s not fair. _

“Then you should have suggested one of them when we were picking a topic.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t wanna get between you and your beloved brood parasites,” Race jeered, continuing to miss as he threw trail mix at the back of Spot’s head.

As a peanut ricocheted off his crown, Spot whipped around in his chair angrily. “Would you stop!?”

Race held his hands up in surrender. “Chill, goddamn, it’s just shitty trail mix, it’s not gonna hurt’cha.”

Spot stood up. “It’s annoying as  _ shit _ , just like the rest of you!”

Race smirked, letting out a little snort of laughter. “Wow, didn’t know you had such strong feelings for me.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Spot snarled.

Race laughed harshly. “Fuck me yourself, you coward.” He stood up as well, fully intending to grab his things and leave.

Spot reached him first and shoved him back. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? You’re a fucking asshole, and I wish you’d played in traffic as a kid.”

Race, knocked back onto the couch, snarled and stood up again, getting right in Spot’s face. “Joke’s on you motherfucker, I did!”

Spot opened his mouth to retort, but before he could get a word out, Race shoved him, hard. Spot was knocked back half a step, and there was just a moment of the two glaring at each other much in the way that wolves would, when competing over some carcass, and then Spot lunged for him.

Instinctually, Race made to dodge to the side, but Spot caught the front of his shirt before he could get more than half a step. Spot brought his fist around against Race's jaw, and his head snapped back. He would've stumbled, but Spot's grip on his shirt kept him in place. As the shorter boy pulled his fist back again, Race jerked his knee up, hitting just below Spot's ribs. The air was forced out of Spot's lungs and he staggered back a step, releasing his hold on Race, but this was only a momentary schism before the two clashed together again, all fists and snarling anger.

Race had the advantage of height, but it hardly counted as an advantage in the face of Spot's sheer force of anger and strength. Race had been right; the boy was absolutely ripped, but this was now a very bad thing, and it was becoming clearer that Spot was definitely the more damaging of the two.

Fights had a way of seeming slower than they are, when one is on the inside. Blows were traded with increasing speed and fury as the boys crashed around the living room. Race made good on his word, at one point managing to strike a blow to the side of Spot's head with his notebook that he had grabbed off the coffee table. This, of course, did nothing, and Spot turned to crack the back of his hand across Race's face to much more substantial effect. As Race turned back to retaliate, Spot landed a blow to his stomach, knocking him back another step, and before he could even properly straighten up again, he felt Spot's hand wind into the front of his shirt again, and with a hearty push that was still somehow almost a punch, his back was slammed into the wall.

Spot was barely even breathing heavily, but Race noticed with a little beam of pride that he’d managed to leave a light bruise on his jaw and a cut through one of his eyebrows.

Spot pinned him against the wall with his whole body, snarling like a rabid animal. “I fuckin’ hate you.”

Race’s chest heaved, more in anger than exertion. Although not used to combat, he was still a dancer. “What are you gonna do about it you little shit?” Race hissed.

Spot proceeded for punch Race in the mouth, but it was significantly less painful, this time. In fact, it didn’t actually hurt. It took a moment for Race to realize that Spot had, in fact, punched him in the mouth with his own mouth instead of with a fist.

Race stood frozen for what felt like hours as his brain struggled to process what was happening, but his body caught up before his brain did, and before he really knew what he was doing, he had fisted his hands in the sides of Spot’s shirt and was kissing him back.

Spot moaned into his mouth, which was  _ obscenely _ hot, then took his wrists and pinned them to the wall on either side of his head. He broke away from Race’s mouth and began placing rough kisses on his neck instead.

Race groaned, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wall.

“Fuck,” Spot growled, sounding genuinely pissed. “How are you so  _ fucking _ pretty?”

Race laughed breathlessly. “Specifically to spite you.”

“You’re the worst.” Spot let go of one of his wrists, and his hand wandered just beneath the hem of Race’s shirt.

Race’s breath stuttered for a moment when Spot’s fingers brushed over his stomach, and he hooked his free hand around Spot’s neck, pulling him in roughly to kiss him again. Spot made a muffled noise of surprise, but responded immediately, pressing Race even harder against the wall with his body.

Race groaned again, dropping his hand to tug at the bottom of Spot’s shirt as his mouth worked furiously against his, demanding, and hungry.

Spot pulled back with a huff. “God, okay.” He stripped his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. “Use your fuckin’ words, bitch.”

With his hands now free, Race hooked his fingers into the waistband of Spot’s jeans and tugged him closer again, effectively crashing their mouths together as he moved his hands to explore Spot’s irritatingly toned chest and abs.

Spot snickered, the bastard, and pulled away again to wrestle Race’s shirt over his head and toss it to the floor beside his own. Race thought he held it over his face longer than was strictly necessary. When he did pull the shirt away, Race’s face was flushed, and he suddenly had a hard time looking at Spot.

Mr. Higgins always told him to never be ashamed of who he was, that no one had the right to make him feel wrong for being himself, and he wasn’t...but he  _ was _ ashamed of how his past was written so clearly over his body.

Little boys and semi trucks don’t mix well.

His hazy memory of the crash burned in his mind like a brand, but it had left him scarred in more ways than one. He was lucky enough that only two of the many cuts on his face had scarred, one near the right hand corner of his bottom lip and another up by his temple. The rest of him, however, was not so lucky. The pale lines and pocks here and there on his arms and legs were easy to dismiss to the shenanigans of any particularly rough and tumble teenage boy, but the marks across his torso were harder to ignore. There was a large, jagged thing that began just next to his left shoulder blade and ended just barely above his shirt collar, and a distinct V-shape, almost as big as his hand, scarred the side of his ribcage. There wasn’t enough that his skin could be considered ‘ruined’—in fact, if you liked such a thing, it made for a lovely, grim aesthetic—but Race couldn’t bear to see them, and he wasn’t too fond of other people seeing, either.

Now, trapped and exposed, Race felt shame.

If Spot noticed anything ‘off’ about Race’s body, he didn’t react to it, and he certainly didn’t say anything about it. He attached his mouth to Race’s collarbone and began unbuttoning Race’s jeans. Race felt his heartbeat pick up, and his breathing was shallower. He leaned his head back again, offering Spot easier access to his neck, and brought his hands up to tangle in Spot’s hair. It was—as suspected—very soft and fluffy, and for some reason that pissed Race off.

Spot shoved Race’s jeans down his thighs and started on removing his own, moving his mouth to a new spot farther up Race’s neck. As soon as Spot’s hands weren’t on him anymore, Race whined and tugged at his hair. Spot growled, a clear warning to  _ stop that _ . This, of course, only encouraged Race to pull harder. Because he’s an idiot.

Once Spot had kicked his jeans off, he grabbed Race, pulled him away from the wall, and threw him at the couch like he was nothing more than a rag doll.

Whether he had a choice in the matter or not, Race was more than willing to topple onto the couch. Spot was there an instant later, pulling Race’s pants the rest of the way off and climbing on top of him. He didn’t even have time to settle before Race wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss, as his hands almost immediately trailed upwards and into his hair.

Spot immediately grabbed his wrists again and pinned them down as he settled himself between Race’s legs. “If you get cum on my aunt’s couch, I’m gonna kill you.”

Race rolled his eyes heavily. “Will you just get on wi—” He broke off into a moan as Spot ground against him, hard, and it suddenly occurred to him how much this wasn’t studying.


	17. The Fuckening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences, kids!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry 'bout the unannounced break! I was on vacation.

Race got home at ten-thirty. Well, he actually got home at ten-fourteen and spent the next sixteen minutes sitting in his car, trying to think up reasonable explanations for the bruises. Fists and mouths leave different kinds of bruises, but both are very distinct, and Spot had certainly not been considerate with his placement of either. Race craned his neck back, looking in the flip-visor’s mirror and cringing at the already purple mark just below his jaw. He tilted his head the other way to look at the bigger, blotchier bruise just above the hinge of his jaw where Spot’s fist had connected.

Despite the somewhat late hour, he could see the lights still on in the living room—of course his parents would’ve waited up for him. There was nothing he could do. He didn’t even have a hoodie in the car to wear in an attempt at hiding the marks.

With an agonized groan, Race rolled his whole upper body around in place of his eyes, and grabbed his backpack out of the passenger seat, kicking his door open and trudging up the porch steps. He began to ‘struggle’ finding his house key—anything to delay the inevitable.

Just as he was considering a spontaneous sleepover at Albert’s, the door swung open, revealing Mr. Higgins. “Did you forget your key a—” He stopped short.

Race stoically met his eyes. Maybe if he pretended there was nothing out of the ordinary…

Mr. Higgins took a slow, deep breath. “What the fuck, Anthony?”

Race choked on his breath, startled and kind of amused under a thick layer of apprehension—he had never heard his father properly swear before. With a huff, Mr. Higgins clapped a hand on his shoulder and shepherded him inside, where his mother was waiting on the couch. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

Race smiled at her, attempting not to look incredibly guilty. “Hey, Mom.”

Mr. Higgins crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened, Tony?”

Race ran a hand uncomfortably through his hair, leaving it a fluffed up mess. “We uh, got some work done on the project...”

“Tony,” his mother said.

Race dropped his gaze to the floor, unwilling to admit what was very plainly obvious.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, and there was the slightest waver in her voice.

He shook his head quickly, biting his lip hard. “No, no I’m fine.”

Mr. Higgins reached out and took Race’s head in his hands, gently tilting it to inspect his bruises. Race kept his lips pressed together in a tight line and looked off to the side, unable to meet his father’s eyes.

His mother stood up and rounded the couch, coming to stand on Race’s other side. “Anthony,” she said. “You need to tell us what happened.”

Despite knowing and adoring and completely trusting his parents, Race felt very trapped in this moment. “Nothing happened. I’m fine, I promise.”

He wriggled uncomfortably in his father’s grasp, and Mr. Higgins let him go, holding his hands up in surrender. Race pushed a hand through his hair again, letting out a slow breath. He very much didn’t want to admit to his parents that he got into a fist fight with Spot Conlon again. Even more so, he didn’t want to admit to his parents that he had then proceeded to fuck the one and the same Spot Conlon. But he had to say  _ something _ . Having your baby boy come home all bruised and refusing to say what happened was definitely not high on any parent’s wish list.

Staring resolutely at one of the throw pillows on the couch, Race pushed his hand through his hair one more time, swallowed his nerves, and started talking. “We were working on the project, and uh...” He rubbed the back of his neck and then left his hand there, fidgeting with his hair as he shifted his weight unhappily. “I was being an ass, and we started yelling, and then we started hitting,” he winced with every addition, “and then, uh....”

“Anthony, do we need to call the cops?” Mr. Higgins asked. “Just tell me that.”

Race shook his head quickly. “Nononono. No, we don’t.”

Mr. Higgins nodded. “Okay. Go to bed. We’re going to talk about this tomorrow.”

Once again, Race winced. “I’m sorry...”

“Go to bed.”

* * *

Thursday morning, Race very much didn’t want to get out of bed. He didn’t want to face his parents. He didn’t want to get in trouble. He didn’t want to disappoint them. He didn’t want to upset them.

At seven-fifteen, Race whined and burrowed deeper under his blankets, but he knew that he could only hide for so long. So long, in this case, being eight minutes. If he didn’t get a move on, he’d be late to school, and that would only add fuel to the world class lecture he knew he was in for.

For Christmas a few years ago, his mother had got him what she called a ‘classy’ hoodie. Really, it was just a thick, cream colored hoodie without pockets, and an almost turtleneck under the hood. It was like if a fancy rich people magazine sweater had a baby with a hoodie. Race wasn’t overly fond of it, but the neckline would offer some semblance of armor for the day. Of course, it also attracted a lot of attention, what with not being his usual style nor cold enough to warrant such a garment.

“Dude, what?” Jack asked the moment he saw him. He poked at the hoodie.

Race frowned, folding his arms across his chest and ducking further into the hoodie. “Fuck off.”

“Woah,” Jack backed up. “You okay?”

Albert met up with them, having heard the last few lines of conversation and raising his eyebrows curiously.

Race continued frowning. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sick? Running a fever?” Albert asked, producing a Capri-Sun out of seemingly nowhere and tossing it to Race. “Stay hydrated and don’t breathe on me.”

Race caught the Capri-Sun and threw it back. “What the fuck why would I be sick?”

“You’re wearing your fancy hoodie in September,” Jack pointed out, catching the Capri-Sun as it was next tossed to him. “It’s not that cold.”

“Plus, you look like shit,” Albert added.

Race huffed and started to pull the hoodie off, grumbling about ‘not helping’ and ‘staring anyway’ and ‘nosy fuckers’. He dragged it off over his head and adjusted the t-shirt he was wearing underneath before wadding the hoodie up and stuffing it into his already full book bag, glaring at it as if it had impugned his family’s honor.

“Holy shit, what happened to you!?” Albert asked much too loudly. A nearby teacher cleared his throat, and Jack punched his arm.

“Would you quiet down? Jeez,” Race hissed, looking somewhat nervously at the teacher. The last thing he wanted was to be called into Mr. Kloppman’s office and get interrogated. The bell rang, indicating ‘time to hurry the fuck up and get to class’.

“Oh, uh-uh,” Jack said. “Hell no. I need deets.” He grabbed Race by the upper arm and dragged him, with Albert in tow, all the way down the hall and out the side exit near the sports fields. Race whined and protested the whole way, insisting it wasn’t a big deal, and he was fine, and they had to go to class.

Once they were safely under the bleachers, Jack all but shrieked with delight, “Who did this to you?” He poked gently at the hickeys on Race’s neck.

Race yelped in protest at the sudden outburst and slapped at Jack’s hands. “Whatthefuck, get off!”

Albert laughed, grinning wickedly. “Whoever it was really did a number on you. Jesus Christ.”

Race groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I know, it’s awful.”

“So you gotta tell us,” Jack insisted, all smiles and sadistic giddiness.

“I don’t gotta tell nothin’,” he grumbled.

“Tell, or I’ll spread a rumor it was Spot Conlon.”

Race’s gaze snapped up to Jack’s, and he glared at him, hoping the bleachers would suddenly crash down and end his suffering.

Jack sputtered. “You’re kidding.” His smile faded. “Race, you didn’t.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Albert chimed in to the shame party.

Race twisted his mouth into something between disgust and shame. “Oh, fuck off.”

Albert smacked him on the back of the head. “Dumbass ho. What’s the matter with you?”

“Kid breaks your nose in elementary school, and you grow up and fuck him.” Jack shook his head disapprovingly. “You really will fuck anyone, won’t you?”

“Ex- _ cuse _ me, I believe  _ you’re _ the one who said it would be the ultimate revenge.” Race pointed his finger accusingly at Albert.

“I said turning him gay would be the ultimate revenge!” Albert protested. “He was already gay!”

Race rolled his eyes. “Guys, come on, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s stupid is what it is, Race,” Jack said. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

Race huffed. “It’s not even my fault; he started it!”

Albert sneered at him. “Oh, you’re a liar. He hates you.”

Race sputtered. “What— No, I’m not! He did!”

“Doesn’t fucking matter.” Jack waved a hand dismissively. “What matters is that it's the first half of October, so Al owes me twenty bucks.”

* * *

Spot wasn’t looking forward to seeing Race in AP Bio—not that he ever looked forward to seeing Race in AP Bio, but he was  _ really _ not looking forward to seeing Race in AP Bio after aggressively unleashing ten years of repressed sexual tension on him during a study session. He almost skipped class. At the last second, he decided the best way to deal with his Racetrack Higgins problem was with exposure therapy, so he walked into AP Bio right as the bell rang and tried not to look at Race or think about how mad pretty he was all marked up like that.

Race was in his usual seat nearer the back of the class, slumped back in his chair almost on a level with the top of his desk. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was rolling his eyes at whatever it was Albert was saying to him.

Mrs. McNamera started class with a short lecture, before saying that she was giving them the rest of the period to finalize their drafts for tomorrow.

Spot groaned. Really? Really. Today of all days.

Chairs screeched across the floor as the classroom churned into motion and people began to trade seats, moving towards their project partners. Race remained in his seat, and looked out the window, away from Spot. Albert cast Spot a funny look as he passed by on his way to his own project partner. Rolling his eyes, Spot gathered his things and made his way over to Race.

Race glanced at him as he approached, and the barest flush of pink tinged his cheeks as he looked away again.  _ Damn _ , that stupid boy was cute. Spot gritted his teeth and tried not to think about the previous night.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Race mumbled, still looking out the window rather than at Spot.

Spot sighed, sitting down at the desk usually occupied by Albert. “Look, I fixed the draft, so we don’t really need to do anything. We can just...pretend...” ... _ that we didn’t have sex last night, and that I haven’t been unable to get you out of my head for the last twelve hours _ .

Race’s eyes darted to meet his for a moment and blush on his cheeks darkened the slightest bit. “Right...”

“Yeah...”

It’s not like anything had changed. Race was still the same jackass he had been the day before, and Spot was still the same jackass he had been the day before. Nothing had changed, except Spot now knew that Race was capable of doing a lot more than talk shit with that pretty mouth, and he made such pretty noises during sex, and if Spot kept thinking about that he was going to pop a very awkward boner in biology class.

Race seemed quite determined to look at anything that wasn’t Spot. To the point that he even actually pulled out his laptop and started reviewing their draft—guess there’s a first time for everything. Unfortunately, the profile view gave Spot the perfect vantage point to see the mean, yellowish bruise he’d left-hooked onto Race’s jaw. He winced, and before he realized what he was doing, he had reached out to gently brush his fingers over it. Race jumped about a mile and his wide eyed gaze snapped to Spot’s.

Spot winced again and grumbled, “Sorry...”

“The fuck was that?” Race sounded more confused than pissed.

Spot gestured to the bruise. “Looks like shit.”

Race huffed. “And whose fault is that?”

Pretty eyes. Race had pretty, blue eyes, too.

“Mine,” Spot said, no qualms about it. It’s not that he was proud of being the one who screwed up Race’s nice skin, it’s that he didn’t want Race to forget it.

Race rolled his eyes. “Shit head,” he muttered.

Spot chuckled. The juvenile insults were...vaguely adorable. “What are you, ten?”

Race scoffed. “I’m sorry is that an attempt at an insult?”

“Nah.” Spot smirked, cruelly amused. “Just wanna know if I should turn myself in for statutory.”

Race curled his lip up disdainfully and brought his hand up to drag his fingers back through his hair. “Oh, please do. Maybe then I can get a new project partner.”

Mrs. McNamera appeared by their desks. “You boys need any help?”

Race offered her a tight smile. “We’re fine.”

“Okay, just let me know if you do.” She continued on to the next group, leaving the boys bathed in awkward silence.

As they kept working on the draft, Spot noticed that, as Race was continuing to shoot looks in his direction every so often, they’d become less seething with hatred, and more curious, maybe even confused.

“What?” he asked finally.

Race let out a short exhale. “I just don’t get it.”

Spot rolled his eyes. “Get what?”

Race turned in his seat to face him more, eyebrows still slightly knit. “Why were you so awful when we were kids? Why did you call me a faggot? You’re just as gay as I am—” He held up a finger as if Spot had tried to speak and needed shushing. “That’s a lie; no one is as gay as I am. But still though, it just doesn’t make sense.”

Oh, god, there was the question, and when Spot opened his mouth to lie through his teeth, the motherfucking, stupid truth came out. “I had a crush on you, dumbass.”

Race’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and a pink flush spread over his cheeks. “You  _ what? _ ”

Spot groaned internally. Why did he say that? Why did he always do and say every goddamn thing wrong? Race was still looking at him with that unrelenting, doe-eyed stare, clearly expecting some sort of explanation, and Spot didn’t have one. For the first time, he felt well and truly bad for hurting this kid in all the various ways he had done. Sure, Race was an idiot and annoying and a jackass, but Spot’s problems weren’t his fault. They had never been his fault.

Spot grabbed his things and left the classroom as fast as he could.

* * *

Just as he had the previous night, Race dragged his feet up the steps and onto the porch and once again hesitated outside the front door. There wasn’t any solution this time, either, and with apprehension weighing heavily in the pit of his stomach, he went inside. When he didn’t immediately see his parents in the living room, he knew they’d be waiting for him at the kitchen table, full-on intervention style. Race groaned quietly, letting his head thud back against the door as he closed it.

“Anthony,” his mother called, just as he expected, from the kitchen, “come in here, please.”

He whined, quiet enough that they wouldn’t hear, and rolled off the door to head into the kitchen. His parents were sitting together on one side of the kitchen table, looking expectantly at him when he walked in.

He hesitated uselessly in the doorway, uncomfortably fidgeting with his hair just behind his ear. “Hi...”

His mother offered him a hollow smile. “Sit down, sweetie.”

Biting back a sigh, Race moved the rest of the way into the kitchen, and sat down heavily in his chair across from them. Mr. and Mrs. Higgins looked at each other, having a silent conversation right in front of Race. They had a way of doing that. Usually, Race hoped he could have something like that someday. At the moment, he just felt like he was fighting a two-to-one battle with the minority disadvantage. He felt guilty for feeling that way about the Higginses.

“Anthony,” Mr. Higgins began, turning back to him, “you are an adult. You can do whatever you want with your body. That’s not for us or anyone else to decide. You know that, right?”

Race tried very hard not to cringe. “Yeah...?”

“And whatever happened last night, if you were—” His father paused and frowned at the table. “If you were forced to do anything—”

Race’s eyes widened and his gaze shot to his father. “What? No, no nothing like that.”

Both his parents audibly sighed with relief.

He shook his head. “No, nothing was— I mean, he started it, but I started the fight, so I guess it’s fair, but nothing bad— Okay, so the punching was bad, but nothing...” and he was off, babbling half sentences and contradicting himself at every turn in an attempt to explain what happened without actually saying what happened.

“Anthony,” Mrs. Higgins cut him off, raising her voice slightly to be heard over him, and he stumbled to a stop, looking up at her. “You told us you were going to study and come home.”

Now he very much did cringe. “We  _ did _ study...” He dropped his gaze to the table, mumbling. “Then some other stuff happened...”

His mother went on, “We were worried about you, but we trusted you, and then you came home like this.”

“I’m sorry...”

Most every child feels bad when they disappoint their parents. No one wants to cause pain for someone they love. For Race, there was always an extra stab of shame and regret, whenever he did something ‘bad’, whether it was neglecting to do the dishes when specifically asked to, or backing into the mailbox the first time he drove the car on his own, or getting relentlessly fucked by his childhood bully when he was supposed to be writing a biology paper. He knew that they never thought so, but Race felt that he was obligated to the Higginses to be a perfect child. They had  _ chosen _ him, pulled him out of that shitty cycle of group homes and foster families. He owed them the life he had, in every way, and no matter how long it had been, or how much they all loved each other, there was always a part of Race that was afraid they’d regret their choice, that they’d wish they’d picked someone else, that they’d send him back.

Race tucked his knees into his chest, resting his heels on the seat of the chair and clasping his arms around his legs. He couldn’t meet his parents’ eyes, and he felt very small.

Mr. Higgins shook his head. “Anthony, this kid has physically assaulted you...what are we up to? Three times, now? Why—...? What were you thinking?”

Race almost pointed out that technically,  _ he _ had been the instigator two of those three times, but decided that probably wasn’t the best direction to go here. He tilted his head down slightly to press his mouth against his knees. “I suppose it isn’t helpful to say ‘I wasn’t thinking’...” he mumbled.

With another sigh, his mother said, “We would never judge you, but we are concerned about the number of sexual partners you’ve had.”

It was all he could do to keep from dropping his face completely and throwing his arms over his head as if to protect from shrapnel. Instead, he stretched his t-shirt out over his bent legs, rendering himself a big lump with arms and a head. No one wants to hear their mother say ‘sexual partners’, and he had no idea how to respond.

“Sweetie, we just want you to be safe,” she added when he didn’t respond.

He just pressed his mouth against his knees again and mumbled nonsensically. What was he supposed to say to that?

“Would you answer your mother, please?” Mr. Higgins huffed.

“I don’t know what you want me to say...”

After a tense moment of silence, his mother spoke up again, voice tight. “You have a doctor’s appointment Saturday after therapy. We’re going to have you tested.”

Race’s eyes shot up to his mother, vaguely horror-stricken. This was a perfectly reasonable thing, but somehow it felt shameful, and repellent.

“I also need to know if you’re taking your medication,” his mother added.

Dropping his gaze again, he nodded.

“Look at me,” his mother said a bit sharply. “Are you taking your medication?”

Race winced, and he met her eyes reluctantly. “I am,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.”

He fidgeted uncomfortably, looking down again. “I don’t like it...”

“It hasn’t been long since you switched,” his father reminded him. “Give it time.”

Race wanted to argue, but he knew better than to push while his parents were already upset.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, not completely sure what he was apologizing for specifically.

Mr. Higgins reached into a shopping bag by his feet that Race hadn’t noticed, produced a box of condoms, and slid them across the table to Race. “Don’t be stupid,” he grumbled, standing up. He walked around the table on the way out of the room, stopping for a moment to lean in and hug Race’s head to his chest. “I would do  _ anything _ to keep you safe.”

With that, he left, and Mrs. Higgins took a deep breath, looking like she might cry. Race felt like if he twisted his face in any more unhappiness and discomfort it might just fall off. He extracted his legs from his shirt, dropping his feet back to the floor, and looked up at his mother.

“I’m sorry mom...”

Before she had a chance to answer, he got up, and retreated towards his room. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he paused and changed directions, heading to the bathroom rather than his bedroom. After locking the door, he turned the water on in the shower, letting it get hot as he kicked off his jeans and pulled his now stretched out t-shirt over his head. Once Race stepped into the shower, he closed his eyes, took a breath, and leaned into the now steaming spray of water, letting it run over his face and soak his hair. He stayed there for a good ten minutes, hoping, as he so frequently did, that the hot water could wash away everything wrong. His mind idled through the happenings of the previous evening, on to today’s conversation, and then back to oh so many different places where he felt he had done wrong by his parents—some small and inconsequential, and others more significant.

Race would’ve stayed in the shower longer, until the sour feeling in his stomach had been properly boiled out of him, but he remembered he had dance that evening and would have to leave before too long. Wrapped in a towel, hair still dripping, he crossed the hallway to his bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him before heading to the dresser to grab a fresh t-shirt and some jeans. He also pulled out clothes to change into once he reached the studio and checked to make sure his shoes were in his dance bag. He checked the time before slipping his phone into his pocket, and after a moment of consideration, decided to go apologize again before heading to the studio.

He could hear his parents in the kitchen on the way down the stairs. His mom sounded like she was crying, and he couldn’t quite make out everything she was saying, but he caught what he thought was, “—our fault?”

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs before rounding the corner into the kitchen, hand still on the banister.

He heard his father sigh, “Rachel—”

“It was our job,” she sobbed, cutting him off.

Things got that sort of echoey they do when you know something is very wrong, but you don’t yet fully know what it is. Race leaned closer to the wall, almost to the edge of it, aiming to hear but not be seen.

“He’s sneaking around, he’s lying to us,” his mother went on, “he’s doing god knows what with god knows how many boys, I think he’s smoking again.” She sniffled. “We failed him, Joel.”

His father sighed again. “He’s an eighteen-year-old boy, Rachel. Every eighteen-year-old boy sneaks around.” He spoke not unkindly, and there was a pause before he continued. “We’re doing what we can...”

“It’s not enough,” his mother insisted. “He’s going to get hurt. Maybe...” She sobbed harder. “Maybe we weren’t supposed to do this. Maybe God didn’t give us a baby because he knew we’d fuck it up.”

Mr. Higgins answered, but Race didn’t hear. His blood had run cold at his mother’s words, and now it was pounding in his ears.

‘Maybe we weren’t supposed to do this’.

Maybe they weren’t supposed to have gone to the home. Maybe they weren’t supposed to have found him. Maybe they weren’t supposed to have taken him home. Maybe they weren’t supposed to have kept him. Maybe they weren’t supposed to have loved him.

He could hear his mother crying, barely getting words out between the tears, he could hear his father comforting her, but he couldn’t grasp any of the words.

This was his fault.

How many times before this? How many times had he unknowingly made his mother cry? How many times had they questioned their choice? How many times had they regretted their choice?

Race’s fingers had gone numb, and everything was muted into echoey nothingness.

This was his fault.


	18. #Brooklyn'sHere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race is AWOL, and Spot takes an impromptu detour to Brooklyn.

When Jack Kelly and Albert DaSilva approached Spot at his locker between first and second period on Friday, he knew he was in for a treat.

“Race sending you two to do his dirty work now?”

Jack frowned. “What? No, we were wondering if you’d heard from him since yesterday?”

Spot scrunched up his face in confusion. “I ain’t his keeper, no. Why?”

“He’s fuckin’ AWOL,” Albert said, and Spot couldn’t miss the nervous waver in his voice. “His mom showed up at my house last night at, like, eleven-thirty looking for him.”

Jack shifted backwards and ran his hand nervously through his hair as he let out a breathy, “Shit...”

Spot shuffled his feet uncomfortably, suddenly remembering all the times he’d told Race one way or another to fuck off and die. “He ever do anything like this before, or...?”

Jack and Albert looked at each other uncomfortably.

“Not without at least one of us along...” Jack said.

Spot nodded. “I’ll let you know if I hear from him.”

Jack nodded as well. “Thank you.”

Albert grunted, not a thank you, but also not a snarl or threat, which was his usual.

The two wandered off down the hall, and Spot chewed on his bottom lip. He was...surprisingly not okay with the idea of Race disappearing. With an irritated growl, he grabbed his phone and car keys and slammed his locker shut. He sorely needed to get Racetrack Higgins out of his head.

* * *

Spot Conlon hadn’t ventured into the heart of New York City in over ten years. He’d managed to park at a mall just outside the city and take a cab into Brooklyn, where he wandered the streets with his hands in his pockets, absentmindedly scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

Spot remembered coming here as a child, scared and alone, with a swollen lip and some bruises not unlike the one he left on Race’s jaw. Kids from his suburb came to the city when they didn’t want to be found, that was for sure. Unfortunately, a banged-up little kid wandering the streets of Brooklyn at twilight all by himself drew a fair amount of attention, and he was back home by midnight. ‘Home’, in this case, is a term he used sparingly. He’d never really had a home. Houses, always, but nowhere he felt safe, like he belonged. He supposed Brooklyn was the closest thing he’d ever had, those few hours he’d been free.

He wandered out onto the Brooklyn Bridge, headed towards Lower Manhattan. There was a pleasant breeze off the water, and traffic was somewhat light—that is to say, not at a complete standstill. He ran his fingertips along the railing as he went, letting the constant noise of the city drown out the thoughts in his head.

As he got about halfway across, Spot noticed that, a little ways ahead, on the other side, someone was sitting up on the railing, with his legs hanging over the edge, looking down at the water. He shook his head slightly. Dumbass, one slip and you’re— Oh shit, he knew that dumbass.

“Race!” he shouted, and he was across six lanes of traffic before stopping to think about what a bad idea it was to dart across six lanes of traffic.

Race jolted, startled at hearing his name, and his face twisted into confused incredulity as he looked over his shoulder towards Spot quickly approaching. Spot wrapped his arms around Race’s waist, and Race yelped as he was dragged backwards off the railing.

Spot dropped him on the ground, knelt down in front of him, grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, and shook him lightly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?”

Race put his hands on Spot’s chest and pushed back. “Dude, what the hell? Get off me!”

Spot saw red. “Your friends are looking for you, asshole!” he screamed at Race. “Your parents are looking for you! Everyone’s worried!”

He was very close to backhanding him across his dumbass face when he fully took in Race’s appearance—dark circles under red-rimmed eyes, rumpled clothes, tangled hair. His backpack leaned up against the railing below where he’d been sitting.

“Race,” Spot asked, softer, “Anthony, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” As he spoke, tears welled up in his eyes, and he moved to push them away with the back of his hand, frowning.

“No, you’re not. You’re...” A sinking feeling hit Spot like a punch to the gut. “Race, did I just—?” He gestured to the railing where Race had been sitting. “Were you—?”

“What? No, I was just looking.” Race frowned more, looking back towards the railing and specifically not at Spot.

“I don’t believe you.” Spot grabbed his face and forced him to look at him. “ _ Race _ .”

The boy recoiled, wriggling backwards and away from him, retreating till his back hit the railing. “What are you doing!?”

“Taking you home.” Spot stood up and grabbed Race’s backpack.

Race shook his head, still sitting on the sidewalk. “No.”

“Yes,” Spot retorted. “Come on. I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Race shook his head again. “I can’t.”

Spot sighed, setting Race’s backpack down again and sitting next to him, back against the railing. “Why not?”

Race pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, staring at the ground, clearly on the edge of tears. “Why are you even here? This isn’t your problem.”

Spot deflected with, “You think I want to do the rest of the damn bio project by myself?”

Race scoffed. “Yeah, cause I’ve been such a big help.”

Spot exhaled slowly. He didn’t have a response for that. “Look, Race, I—” He grimaced, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Just ‘cause you’re a pain in the ass don’t mean I wanna see you yeet yourself off the Brooklyn Bridge. You know Jack and Albert?” He gestured as if they were there. “You shoulda seen ‘em this morning. They’re freakin’ out, man. And what about your fuckin’ family?” His voice had risen slightly, but he found he couldn’t help it. “You got folks who want you, who  _ chose _ you, and you’re just gonna throw all that away?”

Oh, oh now Race was crying. He pressed his lips together tightly. “They shouldn’t have.”

“Should’t’a what? Race, what are you talking about?”

“When I came home, all bruised and everything, they were real upset.” He sniffled, brushing the back of his hand across his nose. “‘An yesterday we talked, ‘an after, I heard mom crying, saying how they shouldn’t have got me, ‘an they weren’t meant to.” Tears were falling in earnest now. He buried his face in his arms, curling in on himself as tears fell thick and fast. “It’s my fault.”

Spot, more out of instinct than anything, reached out and gently rubbed his back, and Race just kept crying, shaking with quiet sobs as he curled up impossibly tighter. He looked so small, so fragile, and Spot’s most basic urge was to protect him. He thought about what might have happened if he hadn’t skipped out on school and come to the city, if he hadn’t wandered on to the bridge, if it had all happened ten minutes later, and his stomach churned.

“Race,I need you be honest with me,” he said. “Were you gonna kill yourself, before I got here?”

When he spoke, it was so quiet that Spot wasn’t entirely sure he actually heard him. “I don’t know...”

“You don’t know?”

Race shook his head. “I don’t know.” He lifted his head to brush the back of his hand over his nose again. “I was just sitting an’ I was thinking about what I’m gonna do and—” He was cut off by a sob, and had to take a moment before he could continue. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

Spot took a deep breath. “Well...there’s a missing person’s report out for you, so I’m gonna take you home, or I’m gonna call the cops to come get you. Your choice.”

* * *

Three minutes had passed since Spot had parked in the Higginses’ driveway, and Race still wouldn’t get out of the car. Spot considered going up to the door, but he didn’t trust Race not to bolt. Spot knew he ran track, hence the name, and with that on top of the height advantage, there was no way Spot could catch him if he ran.

“What are you afraid of?” Spot asked around the five-minute mark. “If you’re afraid they’re going to hurt you or something, I can take you to my aunt’s hospital, and they can—”

Race looked at him wide eyed, horrified, and shook his head. “No, no way, they would never.”

“Then what are we still doing here?”

Race let out a slow, shaky breath and opened the passenger side door. He climbed out, pulling his backpack out and slinging one strap over his shoulder, and looked towards the front door, but didn’t move that direction.

Spot got out next and closed the driver’s side door behind him. “Come on.”

Race approached the front door warily, looking very much like a spooked gazelle that might run at any moment. The front door opened before he even reached it, and a man—presumably his father—appeared. Race’s expression oscillated between guilt, fear, sorrow, relief, and then back round again. He looked like he wanted to say something, but his mouth didn’t seem to share that desire. This went on only for about half a second before the man reached Race and threw his arms around him.

“ _ Christ _ , Anthony,” he exhaled sharply.

And Race was crying again.

Spot felt the pang of jealousy and anger that he always felt when he saw a father actually acting like a father, and aggressively shoved it back into his mental Pandora’s box of daddy issues, where it belonged.

Race’s mother burst through the door a moment later. “Anthony,” she sobbed, crashing into him, “sweetie, thank God.”

Her entrance nearly knocked the three of them over, and after nearly smothering him for a moment, she began checking Race for signs of—well,  _ new _ signs of hurt. Spot watched the scene with a sort of detached fascination and confusion. These people  _ loved _ Race, clearly. He had a hard time imagining them telling Race they didn’t want him.

Seemingly satisfied that he had incurred no further injury from his little disappearing act, Mrs. Higgins cradled Race’s face in her hands, gently forcing him to look at her. “Tony, what happened?” She was crying more than Race was.

His answer was shaky and breathy, as is the way when talking through tears. “Last night, I heard you talking after, an’ I heard you crying, an’ you said—”

“Nonono,” the woman said, wrapping her arms around his shoulders again and pulling him close. “Sweetie, I would  _ never _ .”

“But you said—” he sobbed against her shoulder, seeming so much smaller than he was.

Spot had been so caught up watching this scene unfold that he didn’t notice Mr. Higgins approaching until he spoke. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

There was something very viscerally uncomfortable about facing the father of the boy he’d beaten up, fucked, and saved from death all within the span of three days. “Uh, yeah, you’re welcome,” he answered lamely, tucking his hands in his pocket and looking askance.

Mr. Higgins looked over towards his wife and son, both of whom were still crying. “Where was he?”

“Brooklyn.”

Mr. Higgins shook his head, letting out a slow breath and turning back to Spot. “Thank you, again.”

Then, Mrs. Higgins was coming over, bringing Race with her. She dropped his hand, which she had been holding, and before Spot had a chance to say anything, she had pulled him into a hug. “Thank you so much, thank you.”

Spot patted her back in that awkward way one does when being hugged by a complete stranger. “Yeah...don’t mention it.”

After what felt like way too long, but was really only a few seconds, she released him, still smiling tearfully. “Tony, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” she asked Race, and the boy cringed hard enough that Spot thought his face might crack.

“Sean,” Spot offered. “I’m Sean. We’re partners on a...project...”

Based on the way Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were both gaping on him, they knew who he was, and suddenly, diving off the Brooklyn Bridge didn’t sound so bad. Race looked very much like he was hoping the ground would open up and swallow him as Mr. Higgins cleared his throat and placed a hand on Race’s shoulder. “Well, Sean, thank you again for bringing Tony home.” He still sounded sincere, just a lot stiffer.

“H-hey wait!” Spot interjected as the Higginses turned to go back inside.

Mildly startled, they paused, waiting for him to continue.

He looked at the ground and kicked absently at the concrete. “Can I talk to...one of you, for a moment?”

With a slight frown, Mr. Higgins gestured for Mrs. Higgins to take Race inside, and he turned back to Spot. Race kept looking back towards them as he followed his mother inside, his expression caught somewhere between confused and apprehensive.

Spot swallowed hard. “When I found Race, he was, uh...”

Mr. Higgins frowned. “He was what?”

Spot grimaced. Race’s parents had clearly been through enough, and he supposed he was partially responsible for the situation. He didn’t particularly want to make it worse. Reluctantly, he finished, “On the railing of the Bridge.”

Just from the look on his face, Spot could tell that the bottom had just dropped out of Mr. Higgins’ stomach. “You mean he was...?”

“I don’t know,” Spot shrugged, “he was just sitting there with his legs over the edge and I—” He faltered. “Look, I’m sure you know we don’t get along, but I...” Spot trailed off.

_ I was fucking terrified _ .

Mr. Higgins has gone very white, and he nodded stiffly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“‘Course,” Spot grumbled. “‘M not a fuckin’ monster.”

The sharp flicker behind his eyes suggested that Mr. Higgins might have disagreed with him on that point, but he didn’t say anything.

Spot sighed unhappily. “Right.” He turned back to his car. “Take care, Mr. Higgins.”

The man nodded, and thanked Spot one more time before heading inside.

* * *

By the time Mrs. Higgins had led Race into the house, he had stopped crying. After the events of the past day, he felt very much like a wrung out wash rag, more emotionally battered than anything, and spending a night by oneself in Brooklyn isn’t the most restful of choices. His mother—Christ, his poor mother—was a sniveling mess, murmuring apologies and desperate pleas to never do that again. He had no idea what Spot Conlon was telling his father outside, but he couldn’t imagine it was good.

Again, it was his fault.He’d made things worse, and it was his fault.

“I’m sorry...” Race mumbled, curled up in the corner of the couch with his knees hugged to his chest.

“Oh, sweetie.” His mother, sitting next to him, reached out to pet his hair. “I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you. There is nothing you could do...”

He knew now that he had wildly overacted. He knew he had hurt them both, and he didn’t even have a way to properly explain it. Looking at it now, it was ridiculous and impulsive and thoughtless, and he was left with guilt gnawing at his stomach like a rat in a burning cage.

“When I heard you say you shouldn’t’ve—“

“ _ No _ ,” his mother said firmly, taking his face in her hands. “That’s not what I meant. I would not trade you or give you up for anything,  _ ever _ .”

“I’m sorry,” he said dejectedly. “I wasn’t thinking right.”

“It’s okay.” She offered him a watery smile. “You’re here. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

Then, Mr. Higgins stepped inside, looking pale and glassy-eyed like he’d just been shot. He knelt down by the couch, in front of Race. “Tony,” he choked. There were tears in his eyes. Race had never seen him cry, before. “Sean said he found you on the bridge. Is that true?”

Wide eyed and wordless, Race nodded.

“What were you doing there, bud?”

“I was just looking at the water...” he mumbled, feeling oddly numb.

“You don’t have to get on the railing to do that, bud.”

His mother let out a sharp, shaky breath as if she’d just been punched in the stomach. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob.

Tears brimmed in Race’s eyes as he dropped his gaze to the couch, shrinking in on himself, and again mumbled, “I was just looking…”

It wasn’t that he had planned to jump. He  _ hadn’t _ . He’d just wanted to look at the water. He didn’t really remember why he had decided to get up on the railing. He also knew what it looked like, and he had no idea how to convince his parents that it wasn’t that.

“Tony,” his father began shakily, “we would be lost without you. Albert and Jack, Jojo, Patrick, Tommy...we would all be lost without you. I don’t know how I would get through another single day.”

Race shook his head quickly. “It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t gonna—“

“You’re not that stupid, Tony!”

This shut him right up. He pressed his lips tightly together as the tears began to overflow again. Race didn’t know what to say. He  _ wasn’t _ . He was just looking. Mr. Higgins stood up, walked around the back of the couch, and wrapped his arms around Race’s shoulders from behind. His entire body shook with harsh sobs. “Don’t you  _ ever _ do that again—you hear me?”

“I’m sorry,” Race whimpered, hanging onto his dad’s arms and dropping his head as tears rolled down his face.

Mr. Higgins kissed the top of his head. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Dad. I’m sorry.” Race repeated, starting to shake a little himself.

His mother reached out and cuddled up to his side, burying her face in his shoulder, and his father moved his arm to include her in his embrace; They stayed like this for a few minutes, wrapped together and crying. Race felt absolutely awful. He’d caused them so much stress and fear with everything he’d done. Everything with Spot, the argument about Spot, the running away—none of it was necessary, and it was all his fault. This kept happening; things were fine, things were  _ fun _ , and then it would all come crashing down, and it was always his fault.

Race curled up tighter towards his parents, murmuring apologies until eventually they were all cried out, and Mr. Higgins said he was going to order Chinese food. Mrs. Higgins followed him into the kitchen, and Race could hear them speaking in voices low enough that he couldn’t catch the words. It was undoubtedly something about him ‘getting bad again’ and what could be done to ‘fix it’. Always ‘it’, never ‘him’, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Him? He sunk deeper into the corner of the couch, chin resting on his bent knees, and tried not to think about the trust he knew he’d lost with his parents.


	19. Two Bros Chillin' in a Twin Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2.5 feet apart 'cause only one of 'em's gay.

Saturday morning was therapy, as usual, and judging by the look on Hannah’s face when she came to collect Race from the waiting room, his parents had called and told her all about the last few days’ escapades. When she smiled, there was no joy behind it. It looked like she was wearing a mask.

“Hi, Tony.”

He would’ve claimed that he smiled as well, but it was leaning much more towards a cringe. “Hey,”

“Come on in. Let’s talk.” She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder to usher him into her office. Her voice was gentler than he’d ever heard it. “You wanna tell me what happened yesterday?”

Race winced. He didn’t like therapy as it is, he didn’t like being treated as if he was broken, he didn’t like people walking on eggshells around him and acting like he might snap at the slightest provocation.

“Yeah, sure...” He moved to the couch, absolutely  _ not _ wanting to tell her about what happened yesterday.

“I guess I should probably do Wednesday first...” he started unhappily. “I went to Spot’s place so we could work on the project, an’ mom and dad weren’t real happy about it.” He went on to reluctantly and vaguely explain the events of the past two days—Wednesday with Spot, the talk with his parents, hearing them afterwards and subsequently taking off.

“I  _ was _ just looking,” he said flatly, when the story finally wound up on the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge. “I wasn’t gonna do anything.”

Hannah nodded. “I believe you.” She sounded like she did.

He continued frowning. “Mom and dad don’t.”

“I do,” Hannah reiterated, “but I  _ am _ concerned that you didn’t care what could happen.”

“I have very good balance...” It was a lame diversion, and he knew it.

Hannah sighed and set her notebook down to the side. She turned back to Race with a serious expression. “This is big, Tony. I never expected you to do something this...” She shook her head. “This...reckless.”

He sputtered, reflexively defensive. “I didn’t do anything!”

Hannah raised an eyebrow, and Race crossed his arms, pressing further into the corner of the couch in huffy silence.

Hannah leaned towards him. “Did you care what could happen, Tony?”

“I wasn’t really thinking about it...”

Hannah nodded. Race could see the wheels turning inside her head, trying to figure this out—to figure  _ him _ out. “We have to take this seriously, Tony. You know that. You’re smart.”

What was with the sudden trend of everyone backhandedly calling him stupid? “What am I supposed to be taking seriously if I didn’t do anything?”

“You were on the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge! Suicidal or not, Tony, that’s so dangerous! Can you blame us for being worried?

He crushed himself further into the corner, muttering again about good balance. “I know what it looks like, I get it, but I was fine!”

Hannah squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tony...” She looked up. “I think we need to consider...more extensive treatment options for you.”

He winced again. “What do you mean?”

“Have you ever considered inpatient therapy?”

Race’s blood ran cold, and he shook his head adamantly. Not more hospitals. Not more cold white rooms and stiff beds. Not more being alone.

“I think you should,” Hannah said. “A lot of people find it very helpful.”

He shook his head again. “No. No way.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need to be locked up, I’m not crazy.” He hissed, knowing full well any anger was misplaced in Hannah. She just leveled a flat look at him, clearly waiting for a real answer. He bit his lip, hard, hesitant—as always—to share any part of this story, but she already new part of it, and he was  _ supposed _ to tell her...

He took a slow breath. “After the crash...Well, dad died right off, and everyone thought I would, too.” He closed his eyes as he continued. “I was in the hospital...forever. And I was alone. God only knows where my mother was, and dad’s parents had decided I didn’t exist, so...”

“So you don’t like hospitals.” Hannah nodded in understanding. “That’s a completely fair reaction to what you went through. But Tony, inpatient therapy isn’t like being in a  _ hospital _ hospital. There are some very nice facilities—”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

After a brief pause, Hannah relented. “Just think about it.”

* * *

Mr. Higgins had gone to therapy with Race that day—of course, his parents didn’t trust him to go anywhere on his own—and at first Race was perplexed when his father took a turn off of the usual route home. Mr. Higgins saw the confusion on his face, and reminded him that he had a doctors appointment. The appointment was simple, though deeply uncomfortable with his father present while the doctor asked about his sexual history, and with promise of results within the next few days, they headed home.

After dropping Race off at the front door, Mr. Higgins told him he was going to go grocery shopping and would be home in a bit. Race nodded and headed inside. He went into the office to greet his mother, who was busy working on something for her book-club, and offered evasive answers to “How did today go?” before quickly retreating up the stairs.

He crossed the hall, and just as his fingertips brushed the handle, his bedroom door swung swiftly inwards.

“Race why—“

Race screamed, startled to the point of flailing, tripping over his own feet, and dropping to the floor as the upsettingly red-headed intruder looked down at him.

“Albert, what the fuck!?” Race glared at him indignantly.

Albert gaped. “Me!? ‘ _ Albert _ , what the fuck’!? Race!”

“Whaaat!?” He protested, standing up and shoving at Albert’s chest. “I’m not the one lurking in people’s rooms to give ‘em heart attacks!”

Albert shoved him right back. “Idiot,” he hissed, suddenly not joking anymore. He lunged for Race again, and Race jerked back, but Albert caught ahold of his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. It made sense, but Race was still surprised. Albert was almost never one for physical affection that wasn’t violence-based, and after a second of hesitation, Race reciprocated.

“Why didn’t you come talk to me?” Albert asked weakly.

Race winced, and a nice heavy layer of guilt settled in the pit of his stomach. “I’m sorry, Al...” He didn’t have any excuse to offer, and even if he had, it wouldn’t have made it better.

Albert sighed. “You’re my best friend.”

Race dropped his chin onto Albert’s shoulder. “I know, I’m sorry.” He mumbled, somehow feeling impossibly more guilty now than when he came home the day before.

* * *

Albert stayed for dinner, and afterwards, he and Race ended up on Race’s bed, staring at the ceiling.

“It ever been this bad before?” Albert asked.

Race shook his head. “I mean, I never ended up on the Brooklyn Bridge before, so I guess not.”

Albert hummed. He sounded like he was thinking something he wasn’t saying.

Race flopped his head sideways to look at him, puffing a breath upwards to knock the blond curls out of his eyes. “What?”

Albert looked at him, almost glaring. “You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

Race sputtered. “Yeah okay, tell that to my broken brain.”

“How’d you even get there?” Albert sat up. “Brooklyn, I mean. You didn’t take your car.”

“I walked, mostly.”

“To Brooklyn.”

Race nodded, turning to look at the ceiling again. “‘S not that far when you got all night and half a day.”

Albert chuckled bitterly. “You wanna know what my mom and I were doing all night?” he dragged his hand through his hair. “My mom was yellin’ at me about college again. You know, as she does. Then, suddenly, your mom is banging on our door crying about how you never came home from dance and your car was still in the garage. Christ, man, it was, like, midnight on a school night. I was just wondering if I should go to college after all, and suddenly I’m wondering if I’m ever gonna see my best friend again. So we got in the car and drove around looking, hoping you’d just be dicking around on a street corner. I didn’t even sleep; we were looking for you all night.”

The guilt sitting heavy on Race’s chest was nearly suffocating. “I’m sorry...I wasn’ thinking...”

“I think you were,” Albert said blankly, “and that’s worse. You didn’t think we’d care?”

“No, I knew you’d care...” Race said, barely above a murmur.

Albert was quiet for a moment. “Then I don’t even know what the fuck to say. You need help.”

Race rolled over onto his stomach, resting his chin on his folded arms. “My therapist thinks I should be locked up.”

“Locked up, like, arrested?”

“Committed.”

“Hm.” Albert laid back down. “She might be right.”

Race looked over at him, horrified. “ _ What? _ “

“She might be right,” Albert repeated, easily maintaining eye contact. “Racer, you’re so fucking manic, you  _ walked _ to Brooklyn in the middle of the night and climbed the railing of the Bridge.”

Race rolled over again, nearly falling off the bed as he did so, and sat up. “So I deserve to be thrown in a padded room?” he snapped, knowing that he was dramatizing the situation even as he spoke.

Albert rolled his eyes. “You deserve to get some fucking help so you don’t kill yourself, that’s what you deserve.”

“I’m not gonna kill myself,” he grumbled, glaring at the bedsheets.

“Not on purpose,” Albert snapped.

Race pressed his lips together tightly. He knew Albert was right. Mania is one hell of a drug, and quite often you don’t realize something is a bad idea ‘till it’s too late, especially for Race, who had dealt with it so long. He didn’t notice it so much, and he was pretty good at hiding it, for the most part, whether he meant to or not.

Albert looked back at the ceiling, stone-faced. “I’d never forgive you, you know.”

“What, if I died?”

Albert swallowed hard and nodded, blinking a few times.

“Shit man, are you gonna cry?”

Albert never cried.

“No,” Albert said. His voice was steady.

Race didn’t believe him. “Al, look.” He dragged a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers caught on a tangle. “You know I wouldn’t— I’m not gonna—” He sighed, grimacing briefly before continuing. “I know you care. I know Mom and Dad, and you and your mom, and Jack, and the guys from the studio, and everyone—I know you guys care. An’ I don’t wanna hurt any of you like that.”

Albert turned his head to the side to look at him.

“...What?” Race asked.

“You’re an idiot.”

He let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “Well, yeah.”

Albert rolled over onto his side and reached up to grab a fistful of Race’s shirt, dragging him back down onto the bed so he could wrap his arms around him. This was far from the first time they had cuddled, but as they got older, what Albert considered a reasonable level of physical affection between bros had decreased, so it took Race by surprise.

“Man, you’re really cuddly tonight, huh...?” Race said gently, trying to diffuse the sad tension in the room by being a little bit of a dickhead, as usual. With the well practiced ease of one used to being a pillow, or a teddy bear, he curled up and shifted to fit more comfortably in Albert’s arms.

Albert grumbled, “Deal with it.”

Race snorted. “Yeah okay, Mr. Tough Guy.”

“I’d punch you but I’m comfy.”

“I love you too, Al...” he said gently, hugging Albert’s arms around him.

Albert just grunted and buried his face in Race’s shoulder.

“I’m okay, I promise,” Race said, voice dropping quieter. “I’m gonna be more careful.”

“Good. You’d better.”

Race curled tighter against him, falling silent. He was lucky,  _ damn _ lucky, to have his found family. His parents, Albert and Jack, the guys from dance—Race loved all of them more than he’d ever be able to express. Not all people are so lucky, and as much of a dumbass as he was, Race never took it for granted. He needed to be careful, to be better, not even for his sake, but for theirs. Hurting any of them would be way worse than anything that could happen to him.

Pretty soon, Albert had fallen asleep, somehow hanging onto Race even tighter now that he wasn’t conscious, and Race, always a slut for cuddles, was happy. Despite not sleeping the previous night—too busy wandering the streets of New York—he wasn’t really tired. There was still too much going on in his brain—fear that his parents would never trust him again, relief that Albert was there with him, worry about how he would face Jack on Monday, confusion as to why Spot was the one who showed up on the bridge and dragged him home. All these thoughts and more whirled through his head like a carousel gone berserk, all flashing lights, too-bright colors, dazzling mirrors, and wonky circus music. Mostly giving up on the notion of sleep, Race contented himself with drifting hazily through a miasma of half formed thoughts, only grounded by Albert’s arms around him.


	20. Spot's Stomach Is a Booze Fish Tank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot gets drunk at Hot Shot's house, and Jack is mad at Race.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, bitches!!!

Sean “Spot” Conlon should not get drunk. He knew this. Getting drunk turned Spot into a very small voice in his own head while a large and stupid demon took over his body and vocal chords.

“I fucked Anthony,” the large and stupid demon told Hot Shot, taking another swig of straight vodka while Spot Conlon screamed at it to  _ stop, please, for the love of god. Why would you say that? _

Hot Shot choked on his drink before looking at Spot incredulously. “I’m sorry, you  _ what? _ ”

“Had sex with Anthony motherfucking Higgins,” he repeated, “and it was fffucking fantastic.”

His friend sputtered into laughter. “You fucked the guy whose nose you broke and you’ve hated for years?”

Spot nodded. “So hard, you don’t even know.”

“Wait, you fucked him so hard or you hated him so hard?”

“ _ Both _ .”

“Oh my god, you’re an idiot.” Hot Shot rolled his eyes.

“Worth it,” Spot hummed happily.

“That good, huh?” Hot Shot teased.

“ _ Duuuuude _ .”

He laughed again. “So when you said he wasn’t on the ‘I wanna fuck ‘em’ list, you were lying.”

“Oh god, yes.” Spot nodded vigorously. “He’s so pretty, man. I just can’t. I can’t even.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“No, you know what’s fucking ridiculous.” Spot sat up straighter in Hot Shot’s desk chair, which he had commandeered for this endeavor. “The motherfucker  _ ran away _ , and I found him in Brooklyn.”

Hot Shot frowned, looking over towards him from his place on the floor next to his bed. “Wait, he ran away while you were fucking? Dude...”

“No, nonono, after, after.” Spot batted at Hot Shot, nowhere near making contact. “He got in a fight with his parents or whatever.”

“What was he doing all the way in Brooklyn?”

“Sitting his fine ass on the railing of the bridge, like an  _ idiot _ , and you know what’s really weird?” Spot fixed Hot Shot with a serious gaze. “I  _ gave a shit _ .”

Hot Shot frowned. “Okay, yeah, that’s weird. You hate him.”

“Right!?” Spot flopped back in the chair and raked his fingers through his hair, staring into the middle distance. “What does it mean?”

“Maybe he sucked your soul out through your dick and now he owns you.”

His eyes widened. “Shit.”

Hot Shot nodded seriously. “That’s gotta be it.”

Spot groaned and chugged all of the remaining vodka, which was about a quarter of the bottle.

Hot Shot smacked at him, as if he could reach all the way across the room. “You better not throw up in my room.”

Spot smacked back. “I’s not gonna throw up in ya room, jackass.”

“Coulda fooled me, drinkin’ like you’re trying to make your stomach a booze fish tank,” Hot Shot grumbled.

Spot blinked. “A  _ what? _ ”

Hot Shot gestured with his hands to indicate the sides of an invisible box. “Like a fish tank, but with booze instead of water.”

“B’ I don’ have any fish in there.”

“We got some fish sticks in the freezer.” Hot Shot jerked his thumb towards the door.

Spot grabbed a pen off Hot Shot’s desk and beamed it at him. It hit him in the shoulder, and he protested loudly.

“What was that for!?”

Ignoring his question completely, Spot posed one of his own. “Can I sleep here? My aunt’ll kill me if I come home drunk.” He frowned. “Strike that. My aunt’ll send me back to Philly and fuckin’  _ Mark _ will kill me.”

Hot Shot nodded, shrugging. “Yeah, sure, no one’s gonna care.”

Mason “Hot Shot” Williams was the fourth of eight children, and the Williams household was such a chaotic mess that his parents hardly had the time, let alone the energy or interest, to pay much attention to what he did or who he brought home.

“Cool,” Spot mumbled, feeling himself start to slip into the numb darkness only an ungodly amount of straight vodka can provide.

* * *

On Monday morning, Race was surprised to find Albert leaning against his car when he came outside, though it made sense that he might be worried about Race running off again instead of driving to school.

“D’you wanna ride, then?” Race asked, circling around to unlock the driver’s side door.

“Nah, I want to lay down behind the car and have you run me over,” Albert said.

Race nodded, twisting his mouth downwards and scrunching his eyebrows as if actually considering the idea. “Sounds fun,”

“ _ But _ ,” Albert sighed wistfully, “your parents asked me to accompany you to school, so I guess I’ll do that instead.”

Race grimaced. “‘Course they did,” he muttered, more to himself than Albert. “Alright let’s go,” he continued at a normal tone as he climbed into the driver's seat.

Albert took to the passenger’s seat and, after much cajoling from Race, even buckled his seatbelt. He turned on the radio to a classic rock station, and the two rode mostly in silence to the school.

As they pulled into the parking lot, Albert spoke up. “Jack’s pissed at you.”

Race frowned, paying attention to his parking job rather than looking at Albert. “He is?”

Albert nodded. “Yeah. To be fair, so am I.”

Race pursed his lips as he put the car in park. “I suppose that’s fair...”

They made their way into the school, and oddly, Jack was nowhere to be seen.

Albert just shrugged. “Told ya he’s pissed.”

Race bit his lip, scanning the crowded hallway in search of his friend. “What, he’s gonna just freeze me out?”

“You know Jack. He’s a drama queen. He’ll come around.” Albert clapped Race on the back. “I’ll see you in bio, you stupid idiot.”

Race mumbled unhappily, batting at Albert’s shoulder as they parted ways, and he turned down the hall towards his first class. Along the way, he caught the briefest glimpse of Jack partway down the hallway and, changing course sharply, Race darted towards him. “Jack!”

Jack froze and tensed up. They were far enough apart that Race saw rather than heard him sigh before he turned around, glaring at Race in unadulterated annoyance.

Race stopped short, once again feeling guilt sloshing unpleasantly in his stomach. “...I’m sorry...”

Jack scoffed viciously. “ _ Are _ you, now?” He looked somewhat like a wounded animal—hurt and angry and trying not to look vulnerable.

“Jack, I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I wasn’t  _ trying _ to do anything! It just sorta...happened.”

He did not look at all satisfied with this answer.

“I don’t know what you want me to say...” Race sighed dejectedly.

“Me either,” Jack shot back.

Race bit his lip, frowning. Jack had every right to be upset, of course, but why was he angry? It barely even counted as being Race’s fault!

“Do you want something?” Jack asked.

“Wh—yeah, I want my friend!”

Jack frowned. “Motherfucker, so do I!” He turned and started off down the hallway again.

Race sputtered in outraged confusion and gave chase. “Bitch, I’m right here! What do you want from me?”

Jack stopped and whipped back around so fast, Race ran right into him. “What was I supposed to do if you fucked up?” he shouted, shoving Race off him. “Just get up and— and do art and go to school and hang out with Al like there ain’t somethin’ missing?”

“Jack I wasn’t gonna—“

“I’m not finished!”

Race dropped into huffy silence.

“Did you think about us at all?” Jack asked. “What we were going through? What we would have gone through?”

Race just stared at him.

Jack’s upper lip twitched into a snarl. “Fuck you, Race.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I supposed to talk now or are you gonna yell at me again?” Race snapped.

Jack took a deep, sharp breath and shook his head. “I can’t believe you.” He turned to go again.

Race threw his hands up in frustration. “Jack, I freaked out. What am I supposed to say!?”

Jack just shook his head again and kept walking. Race huffed angrily, glaring at his retreating back. He wasn’t about to start yelling about having a mental breakdown in the middle of the hallway in school, and Jack clearly didn’t want to hear anything he had to say, anyway.

* * *

Race spent most of first period sulking, rather than paying attention. He didn’t even notice class was over until the classroom was half empty. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed out into the hallway, making for his locker.

He was halfway there when a voice behind him very pointedly said, “Hey, Race.”

He paused, turning halfway around to see who it was without really stopping. It was Spot, looking worse than Race had ever seen him and somehow still hotter than ninety percent of the population.

“You okay?” Spot asked.

Race stopped walking, surprised. “Wh— yeah,” he answered automatically. “Why?”

Spot pulled an incredulous face. “Because the last time I saw you, you weren’t doing so hot.”

“Ha, right. I mean, I’m here...”

“Didn’t ask that.”

Race huffed, sending his hair upwards with a puff of breath. “Fine, everything’s shit. What do you want?” He was still upset about Jack, so, rather than consider that it was actually really nice that Spot was checking up on him, Race assumed he had some unpleasant ulterior motive.

“To make sure you’re okay,” Spot snapped. “Jesus Christ.”

Race opened his mouth to snipe maliciously back at him, but he knew that his irritation was—for once—misplaced in Spot. He let out a breath, almost deflating. “I’m sorry, I’m a dick.” He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it lopsided and puffy. “Things are pretty shit.”

Spot blinked, apparently surprised by this sudden outburst of self-awareness. “‘M sorry.”

Race shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets and looking down as he shook his head. “‘S not your fault.”

Spot scoffed. “It kinda is.”

Race frowned, looking up at him again. “How?”

Spot just barely leaned in and spoke quietly. “Well, if I hadn’t nailed you, you wouldn’t a’ been fightin’ with your parents, anyway, right?”

Race snorted, amused. “Fair.”

“So I’m sorry,” Spot concluded, “for my part in it.”

Race almost smirked. “No you’re not.”

“For helping drive you to a psychotic break? Sure I am.” Spot shrugged. He leaned in a little closer. “For nailing you? No, I’m not.”

Race bristled at Spot’s answer, but the second half caught him off guard, and he actually laughed. What the fuck? “You’re a dick.”

“You liked it. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Spot passed him, “that’s about all the Anthony Higgins I can take with a hangover.”

Wait, was Spot... _ teasing _ him? Not insulting, not cussing out, not punching, but  _ teasing? _

Perplexed and amused, Race watched him go, and it was another minute before he remembered that he was in a bad mood.


	21. Jesus Died for Your Right to Braid Your Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah stirs up more trouble at youth group, and Mr. Higgins takes a stand.

People notice a lot less about us than we think they do. No one is going to notice the pimple on the side of your nose or the rip in the seam of your pocket or the little dark spot on your shirt where you spilled some ketchup and tried to get it out with water. However, Race still felt very conspicuous and childish when Mr. Higgins dropped him off in front of the church on Wednesday evening, and, after saying he’d be back a eight o’clock, drove off. Resigning himself to the uncomfortable looks that no one was giving him, Race went inside and began the biweekly hunt for Elmer Kasprzak.

Elmer found him, instead. “Dude, I didn’t know if you’d be here.”

Race grimaced. “So my folks called you too, huh?”

Elmer shook his head. “Your folks called my dad.”

Race twisted his mouth unhappily. “Cool.”

“Where were you?” Elmer asked casually. “Your parents thought you might be at the church.”

“Oh, no, I uh...sorta walked to Brooklyn...”

“You  _ walked? _ ”

He shrugged, avoiding Elmer’s gaze. “I had a lotta time and energy.”

“Goddamn, no wonder you’re a fuckin’ twig.” Elmer slapped him on the ass. “Come on, Buttons is gonna preach to us all about respecting each other’s boundaries.”

Race sputtered into laughter, and followed as Elmer headed down the steps. At least  _ someone _ was acting normal.

Upon entering the basement, Race was met with a disgusted sneer of, “Oh, it’s you.”

Make that two people. Unfortunately, the other was Sarah Fuckin’ Louison.

Race smiled his sweetest, fakest smile at her. “Hey, princess.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, and flounced away to sit with some other tightwads. Race rolled his eyes, landing his gaze on Elmer with a smirk. Elmer mimed gagging, Race quietly giggled, and the two made their way to their usual spot at the couch. Elmer sat on the floor, leaning back against the front of the couch, and Race sat on the couch behind him, with his legs hanging over one of Elmer’s shoulders.

Buttons stood up at the front of the room and opened his mouth to greet everyone, but was cut off when Sarah spoke again, loudly.

“Ugh!” she exclaimed at Race, and possibly Elmer as well. “ _ Must _ you shove your sinful lifestyle down our throats? Here of all places?”

Buttons frowned and opened his mouth again, but this time, Elmer cut him off.

“I ain’t shoving anything down anyone’s throats unless they ask nicely.” He winked.

Buttons sighed so heavily, and Race burst into laughter as the room erupted into chaos, Sarah and her friends yelling in outrage, many of the other kids laughing, and Buttons trying to quiet the ruckus.

“Sarah,  _ please _ be kind to everyone in the group, whether or not you agree with their identity,” Buttons managed as the noise died down. “Elmer...please.”

Elmer held his hands up in surrender, and Sarah just glared at him. Race, ever the idiot, decided to make things worse, and slid off the couch to flop halfway into Elmer’s lap.

Buttons pretended not to notice. “Alright, brothers and sisters in Christ, today we’re going to talk about boundaries.”

* * *

Mr. Higgins was already waiting in the parking lot when youth group let out, and after saying goodbye to Elmer, Race headed over and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Bud. How was the group?”

Mr. Higgins always referred to youth group as ‘the group’. He thought it sounded cooler. He was wrong.

Race let out a short huff of amusement. “Elmer almost got into a fight to defend my honor, but Buttons cooled everything down.”

An amused sort of frown. “Defend your honor?”

Race waved dismissively. “Sarah started in again about me shoving my sinful lifestyle down people’s throats, and Elmer was about ready to throw down.”

A less amused frown. “I like Elmer. Have I mentioned recently that I like Elmer?”

Race laughed briefly. “Yeah, he’s a good guy.”

“I’m going to talk to this Sarah’s parents,” Mr. Higgins concluded. “This is unacceptable.”

“Wh— Dad, it’s fine, she’s just talking.”

“It’s hate speech, it’s aggressive, and it paves the way for violence. That kind of speech has no place in church, especially in youth group, which is supposed to be a safe space for kids to explore their relationships with God and—”

* * *

The next thing Race knew, it was Sunday afternoon, and he was sitting in a church meeting with his parents, Sarah and her parents, Buttons, and Father Richard Kasprzak. Race pulled uncomfortably at one of the cuffs of his sleeves, feeling awkward, and trying not to stare at Sarah, who was apparently determined to pretend Race wasn’t even there.

“So what I’m hearing,” Father Richard said, sounding much like a tired father trying to mediate a silly argument between rowdy children, “is that Tony is homosexual—which I knew—and that this makes Sarah uncomfortable, which she has been vocal about in youth group, and that makes Tony uncomfortable.”

Race muttered about not caring, but Mr. Higgins, speaking at a normal volume, drowned him out. “It’s inappropriate for that sort of exclusive and hateful speech to be in the church—Especially among the youth.”

Mr. Louison piped up before Father Richard could get a word in. “Oh, and I suppose we should allow Satanists in the church, as well.”

Mr. Higgins scoffed, outraged. “I’m sorry are you suggesting that my son—”

“We shouldn’t be promoting lifestyles that go against God to our children!” Mr. Louison interrupted.

“My son’s existence is no more of a testament to sin than anyone else’s! Even if it was, it is not your place to accuse him. ‘Let he that is without sin among you cast the first stone’.”

Race curled his legs into his chest, retreating into the corner of the chair he was sitting in. “Dad, c’mon, it doesn’t—”

“Sweetie,” his mother leaned over and put a hand on his knee, “best to just let him get it out.”

Mrs. Louison jumped in, then. “We’re not saying Tony shouldn’t come to church, we’re saying his lifestyle is nothing to be proud of, and—”

“It’s not a  _ lifestyle _ ,” Mr. Higgins insisted angrily, “it’s  _ who he is _ . He falls in love with boys, just like you.” He gestured at Mrs. Louison. “What’s so bad about that?”

“The Bible explicitly says it’s a sin,” the princess herself answered.

Race held no affection for Sarah Louison, but even so, he cringed in her favor as she made this fatal mistake. ‘Tis not for the faint of heart to challenge Joel Higgins in a contest of what the Bible does and does not explicitly say.

Mr. Higgins narrowed his eyes at the haughty teenager. “I know what the Bible says. I’ve read it. That’s how I know that Jesus died for your right to braid your hair and Tony’s right to love boys.”

“Wh— Those are two entirely different things!” she sputtered.

“We can’t ignore part of God’s teachings for the comfort of  _ one _ ,” her father said. “Tony is the only homosexual in the congre—”

“I’m gay.”

The room fell into stunned silence, and everyone except Father Richard turned to look at Buttons.

A massive grin bloomed across Race’s face. “Holy shit,” he breathed, and immediately clapped his hands over his mouth, looking guiltily between his mother and Father Richard.

In response to the baffled looks he was getting, Buttons clarified. “I am married to a man. I have never been with a woman. Most importantly, Race—Tony—is not alone.”

Having gotten over his surprise, Mr. Higgins looked quite smug, which is an odd reaction to learning someone is married, but it made sense in the context. Race was too delighted and touched to be mad that he hadn’t sussed it out earlier. 

“Right,” Father Richard sighed. “Listen, my goal here is to spread the love of Christ. Jesus had dinner with prostitutes and tax collectors. If he can do that, Sarah, I think you can survive youth group with Jesse and Tony.”

Race only barely managed to stop himself from saying ‘Buttons is the tax collector’. Sarah huffed and crossed her arms, shooting a sour look at Race.

“And Tony,” Father Richard looked at him and sighed again, “try not to be obnoxious about it.”

Anyone who knew Race knew that asking him not to be obnoxious was like asking a fish to stop swimming, but he nodded meekly anyway.

“Thank you,” Mr. Higgins said to Father Richard, apparently satisfied with the result of the meeting.

Sarah and her parents left in a huff, and as soon as the door closed behind them, Buttons rolled his eyes and winked at Race. Struggling to keep his grin at any level below shit eating, Race extracted himself from his chair and walked over to hug Buttons.

Buttons smiled and ruffled his hair. “Sorry about all this, kid.”

“Thank you,” Race said sincerely, for once not sounding like an overdramatic asshat.

“You belong here,” Buttons said. “You are a loved, treasured child of God. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”


	22. Race Has the Common Sense of a Crouton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race takes Spot on an adventure.

Tuesday morning was boring. Apparently, driving Albert to school was now the normal, as Race wasn’t to be trusted on his own. Jack was speaking to him again, but he was still pissed. Race was very unhappy with the current state of affairs. Rumors had begun to circulate, and everyone was being super weird about it. Some people acted like he was about to have a psychotic break and shoot up the school any second, which just made him angry. Others acted like he was something small and breakable, which  _ also _ made him angry. Most of them, especially the teachers, were very badly pretending at ‘normal’, but everything was just a touch gentler and pitying, and it was all just awful.

“Christ, what’s the matter with you, now?”

Race, who had been scowling at the floor on his way to AP Bio, looked up to find Spot frowning at him.

Race’s frown became creased with confusion. “Excuse me?”

Spot gestured to the floor in between them. “You look like the floor killed your dog.”

He let out a short huff of laughter. “Nah. Don’t got a dog anyway.” He swiped a hand through his hair, wincing at a tangle. “Everyone’s being all weird.”

“Yeah, I heard you tried to kill yourself because you got AIDS,” Spot deadpanned.

Race sputtered into laughter. “Shit, I guess you’re in trouble, then.”

“Yeah, this was Vince telling me I should get tested.” Spot was obviously trying to hold back a smile.

Race smirked. “You been bragging? I only told Al and Jack and they’re too ashamed of me to spread it around.”

“I told Hot Shot while I was drunk, so I imagine the whole town knows by now.”

“You dumb fuck,” Race laughed.

“Stupid bitch,” Spot shot back.

“Excuse the fuck outta me, I am a very smart bitch.”

Spot scoffed. “You’ve got the common sense of a crouton.” He lightly shoulder-checked Race as they stepped into the classroom, knocking him into the doorframe.

Race glared at him as he headed towards his desk, but it was more amused than venomous.

* * *

After class, as the room was emptying, Race changed course on a sudden impulse, aiming for Spot’s desk rather than the door.

Spot almost bumped into Race as he stood up. “Woah, dude.”

“Sorry, hey.” Race shifted back a step, suddenly not knowing why he walked over.

Spot eyed him suspiciously.

“What? Jeez, I’m not gonna bite’cha. Well...” Race wrinkled his nose up in a smirk.

“What do you want, Race?”

“I dunno. I’m bored, and everyone else is still mad.” Race shoved his hands into his pockets, not looking at Spot

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

Race shrugged. “D’you wanna hang out?”

Spot looked at him like he had three heads, each with eight or so eyes. “We hate each other.”

Race held his hands up in surrender. “Fine, whatever. Just thought I’d ask. I’ll just go fuck off.”

He headed out the door, intent on catching up with Albert and trying his luck with him and Jack, but just as he cleared the threshold, he heard, “Wait.”

* * *

“Where are we going?” Spot asked, glancing nervously at Race. He had no earthly idea what possessed him to agree to hang out with Race after school, much less let the idiot drive.

Oh, who was he kidding? It was a smile and a pair of pretty blue eyes.

Race shrugged, eyes locked on the road with surprising solidity. “Haven’t decided yet. Any suggestions?”

“Uh,” Spot uttered lamely. “That all depends on what we’re  _ doing _ , which we haven’t discussed either.”

“Also haven’t decided yet,” Race replied unhelpfully.

Spot sighed. “Okay, let me get this straight.”

“No, I’m gay, I thought you knew?”

“Shut up. So we’re driving, just,” Spot shook his head, “aimlessly. That’s how we’re spending the afternoon.”

“No, I’m finding somewhere to park so we can walk.”

Race pulled into the parking lot next to a Walgreens and turned the car off before he climbed out. Spot followed, questioning all his life’s decisions leading up to this point. Race seemingly picked a direction at random, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket as he walked and flipping it open to pull one out. Placing the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he put the pack away before pulling out a lighter, and a mildly concerning twinkle sparked up in his eyes when he flicked it on. It was...oddly cute. Fuck.

“What are you thinking?” Spot asked, voice thick with trepidation.

Walking down between the buildings, they’d come out by the back of the Walgreens, and Race’s eyes narrowed as he looked at a dumpster by the back wall. “I bet there’s a lot of flammable stuff in there.”

Spot shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and watched in something like awe as Race approached the dumpster and peered inside. He could not for the life of him figure this boy out. It was infuriating, exhausting, and a little bit fun, if he was completely honest.

Race frowned as he appraised the contents of the dumpster. “Shit, I was hoping for mountains of receipts, but I guess that’s more CVS...plus, people take those home...”

Spot absolutely refused to show any indication of his amusement. “Can’t we just get drunk like normal teenagers?”

Race twisted his mouth downwards and lifted his eyebrows, considering the potential of this idea. “Alcohol is flammable...”

Goddamnit. Spot laughed.

A brief grin flashed across Race’s face as he glanced at Spot. “You got a fake ID?”

“Not on me.”

He frowned. “Mm. You willing to whore yourself out near the liquor store to get someone to buy shit for us?”

“No, but I bet you are.” Spot smirked.

“No shit, I wouldn’t’a suggested it otherwise,” Race scoffed, and—wait, was that a wink? It had been so fast that Spot wasn’t entirely sure.

“You really are such a slut, huh?” Spot chuckled, thinking back on what Myron had said when he and Vince and Hot Shot were trying to set Spot up. It’s not often that high school rumors are one-hundred percent true.

“You’re only just now noticing?” Race teased.

Spot smirked harder. “No, I noticed when you were sucking me off.”

“Observant.”

Spot leaned back against the wall and looked at Race for a minute. Race had always been cute. Even when they were kids, and Spot was a tiny, gangly piece of shit, Race had been all smiley cheeks and soft hair and big, blue eyes. He’d looked like a little cherub and acted like a little devil. Not much had changed, except that Race wasn’t just cute anymore—he was a goddamn stunner, and still a little devil, and goddamn wasn’t that a combination?

“So are we finding a liquor store, or am I climbing into this dumpster?”

Make that goddamn stunner, little devil, and complete dumbass.

“Climb in the dumpster,” Spot said, pushing off the wall. “It’s where you belong.”

“Bet!” Race got a grip on the edge of the dumpster and jumped, pulling himself up easily. He swung his legs over and dropped inside. Lucky for him, it was mostly boxes and empty pill bottles rather than old food or other gross mess. “Woo, I’m trash!” Race cooed cheerfully and began kicking around, looking for god knows what. He quickly became discontented. “Man, there’s nothing fun in here.”

Spot was already checking the map on his phone. “There’s a liquor store a couple blocks away.” He didn’t particularly want Race to set things on fire, but if they managed to pull something off, he could get some booze out of the deal.

Race nodded absently, inspecting a rather battered box of Wheat Chex. “Yeah, okay.”

He climbed out of the dumpster, bringing the cereal with him. The two headed down the street and around the corner.

“So, what’s your plan?” Spot asked.

“I’m gonna make the box into a little house and use the cereal to make a fuse leading up to it.” Race shook the cereal box in his hand.

“To get the alcohol, dumbass.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “I dunno, ask someone on the street to buy it? I got some cash.”

Spot shrugged as well. That seemed like a good enough plan, and one he’d employed a couple times back in Philadelphia.

It didn’t take too long to get to the liquor store, Race found a chunk of cement that had knocked loose from the sidewalk and kicked it along in front of him all the way there. When they got to the store, they had to wait for a while before anyone else happened along that stretch of sidewalk. Race, having abandoned his box of Wheat Chex in favor of harassing passers by, asked a little old lady, who looked at him like he had asked her to renounce God and and set her church on fire. Spot just watched, amused as Race made efforts with each person who came along, failing beautifully each time. Eventually, a guy who looked somewhere in his mid twenties came by, making a beeline for the door, and Race slid into his way, grinning like a hyena.

“Hey, guy, d’you wanna pick up something for me and my buddy, ‘f I give you some cash for it?”

The guy scoffed and tried to side-step around him.

“‘Ey no wait hang on!” Race followed him. “You’re going in anyway, aren’t’cha? ‘S not gonna cost you anything!”

“Move it, kid,” the man growled.

“My dude, c’mon, just grab whatever, we don’t even care.” He started digging around in his pocket. “Here, hang on, I’ve got cash, it’s fine.”

Spot, who’d been loitering to the side, took a step towards the scene. “Come on, Race, knock it off.”

Race, still very much in front of the man, turned to look at Spot and opened his mouth to answer him, but before he had a chance to speak the man placed a hand on his shoulder and solidly shoved him. "Yeah, listen to your little friend, knock it off."

As Race had been facing Spot when he was pushed, Spot got a lovely view of the anger that flooded his eyes as he stumbled. This was going to be a disaster.

Race turned back to the man sharply, stepping towards him again. "The fuck was that for?"

"Get the fuck outta my face, kid."

Race was still keeping pace with him. "I'm just trying to conduct some friendly business here. You don't need to be a dick about it!"

The man laughed harshly. " _ I'm _ being a dick, huh?"

Race stepped in front of him again, blocking his way towards the store, and opening his mouth to retort, but the man cut him off as he shook his head and scoffed, muttering. "Fuckin' psycho shit—”

Race's fist slammed into his mouth before he could finish his insult.

This, of course, was a terrible choice in many ways. As anyone with experience brawling knows, punching someone in the mouth is not a good idea. You'll hurt your hand more than you'll hurt them—get your knuckles all cut up on their teeth. For another thing, this man was significantly larger than Race. His head snapped back at the blow, but he barely staggered, more from surprise than impact. He looked at Race in bewildered rage, and Race snarled at him, darting forwards. He went for the man's face again, but the man knocked him back with a strike of his own, cracking his fist across Race's jaw and sending the boy reeling to the side. It was clear that this man was more than happy to take the bait Race had so prettily laid out, and before the boy had a chance to regain his composure, the man grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back, driving a punch towards the bottom of his rib cage. Race managed to roll with it, deflecting at least some of the force, and slammed his fist into the side of the man's head, striking his ear. The man lurched to the side, staggering as his balance was thrown, and now Race was on the offensive again.

Things had happened so fast that only now did Spot make it over to them. His intention was to drag Race off and try to deescalate the situation, but he barely got his hands on him before he was sent staggering from a blow to his back. Apparently, the man had taken his approach as another threat and now had his sights on Spot as well. He took another shot at him. This one, Spot caught with his arm, deflecting, but the next one struck it's target. Before Spot even had a chance to decide whether he was going to retaliate or not, Race—the fucking idiot—had darted around to launch himself at the man again and caught him with a sharp hook just below his sternum, knocking his breath out of him. He whirled on Race, swinging his arm heavily to club the side of his head, and Race was very nearly knocked down. Spot again lunged for him, reaching to get a hold on his shirt and pull him away, but the man was between them and again took Spot's move as aggression. He was moving the way one does when both angry and scared, and Race was leaving Spot no room for explanation. The man swung at Spot, but he dodged, ducking back away from his fist, and Race landed a shot on the man's side. Once again, Spot tried to dart around to grab him, but the man threw his arm out into his path, putting a sharp stop to his momentum and knocking him off his feet. Spot went down hard but recovered quickly, surging back to his feet as the man turned and struck Race in the side, just below his ribs. Race let out a ragged, hollow sounding gasp and staggered back a step, and the man took off running. Race, clearly intent on pursuit, took a step after him, gasped roughly again, and collapsed.

“Race?” Spot asked shakily, as his thoughts slowed to a crawl.  _ What the fuck? What the fuck just happened? _

Race was on his side, facing away from Spot. He didn’t answer, but Spot could hear him breathing raggedly. It was then that Spot noticed the dark, wet patch spreading across his side.

“Fuck. Race!” Spot knelt down next to him to survey his injuries.

He was still conscious, wide eyed and confused. Spot carefully lifted his shirt, peeling the saturated fabric off his skin, and saw a ragged-looking puncture about an inch and a half wide, three inches above his right hip. From the amount of dark blood pooling across his side, the knife—or whatever that man had—must’ve gone deep.

“ _ Christ _ .” Spot unzipped his hoodie and shrugged it off. “Talk to me, Race.” He wadded up his hoodie and pressed it hard against the wound.

Race gasped again when Spot pressed down, and his breathing picked up, shallow and ragged.

“Goddamnit,” Spot snapped at no one in particular. He carefully rolled Race onto his back and lifted his shoulders so he could get an arm around him.

Race let out a low whine, squeezing his eyes shut at the pain of this movement. Spot lifted his knees with his other arm and picked him up. He was considerably taller than Spot, which made the carrying kind of awkward, but he was fairly light, and Spot started at a quick pace back the way they’d come.

“What are you doing?” Race mumbled.

Spot let out an involuntary sigh of relief that he could still talk. “Taking you to the hospital, idiot. You just got stabbed.”

“Wh—? No…” It was more of a confused exhale than any sort of proper word. 

Race was growing paler by the second, and his skin felt cool and clammy. His injured side was pressed against Spot, and Spot could feel his own shirt getting soaked fast. He gritted his teeth and broke into a jog, not wanting to jostle Race more than necessary, but needing to get to the car as soon as possible. Finally,  _ finally _ , they rounded the corner, and Race’s Corolla came into view. When they got close, Spot had to set Race back down.

“Where are your keys, Race?” he asked, already fishing through the other boy’s pockets.

“What?” Race answered breathily, looking towards Spot in confusion.

Spot shook his head, finding the keys in one of Race’s back pockets. “Nothing. It’s okay.” He unlocked the car, opened one of the back doors, and picked Race back up to put him inside. He set him down and briefly struggled with whether or not he should sit him up and buckle him in, or lay him flat. His deliberation was interrupted by Race gripping his arm tightly, and shaking his head.

“Nonononono I don’t want—” his speech was a little wobbly, and he still wasn’t breathing smoothly.

Spot frowned, again pressing his hoodie against Race’s side and using the sleeves to tie it in place. “What?”

Race pulled on Spot, trying to drag himself towards him, but gasped sharply in pain, and let go. “Can’t, let me out.”

“I have to take you to the hospital.”

“I don’t want—” Another ragged breath. “I wanna go home.”

“Race you have to—”

“Not ‘n th’ backseat,” he whimpered, eyes screwed tightly shut as his breath hitched roughly. “Please. I can’t— I don’t want—”

They didn’t have time for Spot to fight him on the seating arrangement, so Spot opened the passenger door and transferred Race as quickly as possible. He strapped him in, using the seatbelt to help hold his hoodie against the wound. As soon as Race was set, he slammed the door and darted around to the driver’s side, practically diving into the seat. The half a second it took for the car to start felt like an eternity. Just before he started the car moving, he glanced over at Race, and his stomach dropped.

Spot was no doctor, by any means, but he did live with a nurse, and he knew shock when he saw it. He also knew generally how the cardiovascular system worked. He wasn’t sure Race had enough time left to make it to the hospital. His eyes were closed, and his head was leaned back against the seat as he breathed shallowly, punctuated here and there by small gasps of pain, whimpers, and almost inaudible ‘I don’t want to’s.

Swallowing the wave of nausea that rippled through his body, Spot maneuvered the car out of the Walgreens parking lot and took off down the road at ten miles-per-hour above the speed limit. Race was crying now, with his arms hugged tight around himself, and his breath came in short, rough gasps. A dark sense of dread crept over Spot, like a cloud covering the sun, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Race was annoying as all hell, but he didn’t deserve to die for it. Spot’s mind involuntarily wandered to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, who were going about their day with no idea they were living their worst nightmare, losing their only son. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white and sped up another five miles-per-hour.

“Can you call your parents?” Spot asked Race. It was a long shot, and he knew it. “Tell ‘em I’m taking you to Park Row Memorial.”

Race didn’t seem to hear him, staring blindly out the window as he choked on rapid, shallow breaths.

“Race,” Spot tried a little louder.

There was no answer, and Race’s arms sagged, no longer wrapped around him.

_ No _ . “Race, come on.”

Spot almost ran right through a red light, slamming the car to a stop just barely in time. He leaned over the center console and tilted Race’s head back towards him. “Hey...”

His eyelids were fluttering rapidly, almost closed, and he was breathing so shallowly Spot could barely hear it. His side was soaked in blood, as was one of his hands as well where he had been holding onto himself.

Spot shook him gently. “Look at me, Anthony.”  _ He’s eighteen years old, goddamnit _ . “Don’t you fucking dare leave me.”  _ He doesn’t deserve to die like this _ . The light turned green.

“ _ Fuck _ .” Spot sped off again. His hands were shaking. They were so close, but not close enough.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I broke your nose when we were kids. I’m sorry for everything. I’m so sorry, Race.”

_ I don’t want him to die _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.


	23. Race Looks Like Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter continued.

Race’s car came careening into the emergency room parking lot at Park Row Memorial Hospital and screeched to a halt, not quite in a parking space. Spot crashed out of the driver’s side, darted around the front of the car, threw open the passenger’s side door, and set about unbuckling Race’s seatbelt. Race had spent the last three minutes of the car ride unconscious, but the rough stop seemed to have jostled him at least most of the way back to reality. He took a shuddering breath as Spot pulled him out of the car, and his eyes fluttered open.

Spot never in his life thought he’d be so happy to see Racetrack Higgins. “We’re here, Race,” he said, adjusting him in his arms. He took off in a sprint towards the automatic doors.

The second they entered the waiting room, the nurses at the desk took one look at Race and sprung into action. One called for a doctor, another rushed over to help Spot, and in record speed, they had Race on a gurney. At some point in the chaos, Spot’s aunt had made it over and put her arm around him.

As soon as Race was pulled out of Spot’s arms, he seemed to wake up a bit more, trying to weakly pull away from the nurses settling him on the gurney. “No, no wait, I don’t want—” They were in motion, heading quickly towards the doors that lead into the medical bay, and Race was crying again, becoming more frantic. “Wait,  _ please _ , I don’t want to, I don’t— Spot!”

Spot took off after them, despite his aunt’s protests. “What? What’s the matter?”

Race’s breathing was frantic and ragged to the point where he couldn’t speak, but he reached desperately towards Spot, looking absolutely terrified. Spot grabbed his hand and looked to the other nurses.

One shook her head apologetically. “You have to wait here for a bit. We’ll let you know as soon as you can see him.”

“Nonononononono—” Race babbled, becoming increasingly panicked and hanging onto Spot’s hand for dear life.

Spot winced, “I’m sorry,” and let go.

The most pitiful, broken sob tore out of Race, and then he was gone, and the door swung shut. Spot collapsed into the nearest seat and dropped his head into his hands.

* * *

Aunt Beth brought Spot a pair of scrubs to change into, since his own clothes were thoroughly soaked through with blood. She had to leave him in the waiting room to go back to work, but she came back about twenty minutes later to check in on him and let him know that Race—although panicked and uncooperative—was stabilizing. It was another ten minutes before a nurse came to call Spot back to see him. Spot followed the nurse quickly, wringing his hands nervously as they went down the hall, and stopped at a mostly closed door. Thanking the nurse, he slipped inside quietly, blanching when he caught sight of Race, limp and trembling under a thin blanket on the hospital bed. His eyes were tight shut, and his face was stained with tear tracks. They had him hooked up to an IV drip, a heart rate monitor, and a few other things, including a blood bag.

Spot’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He swallowed hard. “H-hey, Race.”

The boy’s eyelids fluttered briefly before opening, and he looked over at Spot, but he didn’t say anything. Spot shifted his weight nervously between his feet, not knowing if he should go to Race or stay back.

“You look like shit,” he said, seeing no point in ignoring the obvious. Race was a mess.

Race exhaled shortly. “Fuck you, too,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Spot took his answer as an invitation to come closer. He rested his hands on the little railing on the side of the bed. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot, you know, fighting with random guys on the street.”

“He started it.” Race muttered.

“No, he didn’t,” Spot argued, voice raising slightly, involuntarily, “ _ you _ did, and you almost died.”

Race closed his eyes again, curling his lip up in the barest shadow of a displeased snarl, rather than replying.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Spot huffed unhappily. He looked around the room at all the machines and wires and tubes, then back at Race. It was almost disgusting, how Race could look half dead and still be a sight for sore eyes.

“They stole my blood,” he said quietly.

“They—” Spot blinked. “What? No, they  _ gave _ you blood. You lost plenty on your own.”

Race shook his head weakly, pointing at the bag he was hooked up to. “Took mine, givin’ me someone else’s.” He paused, dropping his hand before rolling his head slightly to the side to look at Spot again. “Y’think he’s dead?”

Spot shook his head. “No, I think he donated blood at a drive or something.”

“Mm.” Race frowned again. “‘S boring.” There was a small pause and he spoke again, suddenly sounding very small. “Thank you...”

Spot just shrugged. What was he supposed to have done? Let him bleed to death on the sidewalk?

A pained smile slid onto Race’s face. “Must be weird, seein’ me all fucked up when it ain’t your handiwork.”

Spot scoffed. “Yeah, not nearly as enjoyable.”

“Fuckin’ sadist.” Race laughed, cutting short with a wince.

Spot winced along with him and tried to hide it with a cough. He gestured vaguely to Race’s side. “He got ya good, huh?”

“Two millimeters wide, inch and a half long, three inches deep, and a nice little twist and rip when he pulled out,” Race recited, smiling blithely.

Spot chuckled, more at how proud Race looked than the actual fact. “Shit.”

“Yeah, pretty kinky shit, huh?”

“If you’d wanted to be stabbed, you shoulda just asked. I’da missed your lungs.”

Race snickered. “Yeah, don’t get me wrong, I’m up for a lot, but organ damage is a bit too much for me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Race’s smirk stayed firmly in place, but his eyes narrowed as he shot Spot a calculating look. Spot, well aware of what he’d just implied, tossed him a wink and retreated to a nearby chair, and Race’s face crinkled into one of amused and confused incredulity, but before he had a chance to respond, the door opened, and there were Mr. and Mrs. Higgins.

“Oh my god,” Mrs. Higgins breathed as they both rushed to his side. “Oh, my baby.” She gently pet his hair and kissed his forehead.

“What happened, bud?” Mr. Higgins asked, placing a hand on his arm.

Race leaned into Mrs. Higgins embrace, looking guiltily at his father. “I uh...sorta got stabbed.”

“You what!?” Mrs. Higgins gasped.

Mr. Higgins rounded on Spot with startling speed. “Did you do this?”

“What— No!” Spot protested, more than a little angry at the accusation.

“Whoa, hey, hang on!” Race grabbed at his father.

“Joel,” Mrs. Higgins admonished softly, and Mr. Higgins took a deep breath and turned back to his son.

Mrs. Higgins still had her arms wrapped around one of Race’s, and now Race had a grip on the edge of his father’s sleeve. He looked him in the eye and spoke with the most solidity Spot had heard from him since the Walgreens parking lot.

“If Spot hadn’t been there, I would’ve died.”

Mr. Higgins took another deep breath and turned back to Spot. “I’m sorry, Sean.”

“Don’t mention it.” Spot stood up. “You all clearly need some time, so I’ll go.”

“Thank you,” Race called after him as he left, sounding very breakable again.

Spot stopped in the doorway and offered a very strained smile over his shoulder. “See ya later, idiot.”

* * *

Spot closed the door behind him, and the room was tensely, painfully quiet.

Mrs. Higgins pressed another kiss to Race’s head. “What happened, sweetie?”

Race took a slow breath. “You’re gonna be mad...”

She shook her head. “I won’t. I promise.”

He glanced at his father, knowing he would make no such promises, and steeled himself for the impending disaster. His head was still swimming, and he felt like a squeezed out tube of toothpaste, not to mention the throbbing pain in his side and how difficult breathing was. “Well...everyone’s mad at me, and Spot’s actually been sorta friendly lately.” He avoided his parents gaze—they knew full well how friendly Spot had been. “It was kinda on impulse, but I asked if he wanted to hang out.” He took a breath, wincing as his freshly re-sealed lung expanded. “We drove around for a bit, I found some Wheat Chex in a dumpster, and uh,” he winced again, this time from guilt, “I really wanted to set stuff on fire—nothing big, I swear, just the Wheat Chex, maybe some sticks and stuff.”

His dad groaned. “Tony...”

“I’m always careful when I set stuff on fire!”

That probably wasn’t the right thing to say in that moment, but Mr. Higgins just sighed and gestured for him to go on.

“Well...” Here it comes. “Alcohol is pretty flammable, so...” He braced for the explosion.

It didn’t come, though neither of his parents looked happy. His father folded his arms, and the muscles in his mother’s jaw tightened as if she was gritting her teeth. That was almost worse.

Race took a shallow, shaky breath, trying to steady himself. He was getting lightheaded again, so he leaned back against the few pillows stacked behind him on the unreclined hospital bed. “I asked a few people to get us whatever. I had cash to pay for it, but no one wanted to. Then uh,” he closed his eyes to stop the room that was beginning to sway and pitch around him, “I fixated on this one guy for some reason, got in his way and stuff, and he shoved me, and...I got mad...”

He felt his father gently take his free hand, and his mother brushed hers soothingly through his hair.

Race gratefully held onto his father’s hand, anchoring himself on something that wasn’t trying to spin and wobble away. “I think I yelled at him. I don’t really remember. Spot told me to knock it off, but I didn’t. He—the guy—called me a psycho...” Race winced. “So I hit him.”

“Tony...” his mother gasped softly.

He shrank in on himself guiltily. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Go on, bud,” his father said.

Race opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it as the room dipped and swayed like the deck of a ship caught in a storm. He squeezed his eyes shut again and tried to sit up and pull his legs up to his chest, but it felt like his side was going to rip open again if he tried much harder, so he sagged back against the pillows. “We were fighting, an’ Spot kept tryin’ to get in the way an’ pull me out, but the guy knocked him down or something and then—” He let out a huff of a breath. “Well, I thought he’d just punched me again, but there was a weird sound. He ran off, an’ I fell...I really don’t remember much after that, ‘cept it hurt real bad...”

“Oh, my poor baby,” his mother whimpered, sounding very far away.

“Is it okay if he sleeps?” his father asked quietly.

“I think so. Ask a nurse.”

“Dad?” Race felt floaty, like he might drift away if he let go of his father’s hand. He meant to open his eyes and look at him, but his eyelids were too heavy to manage more than a flutter.

“Yeah, bud?”

“I’m sorry...”

His dad hushed him. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ve gotcha.”

That was the last thing Race remembered as he slid backwards, out of his head and back into that dark, muffled place where everything else was just dusty echoes.

* * *

An unknowable amount of time later, Race woke up much the way one floats up from the bottom of a pool. It was a slow sort of feeling, with the slight panic of ‘can’t breathe’, and then, in a rush of bubbles, he was awake. He sat up sharply, gasping for breath, and immediately buckled, dropping back against the pillows.

A familiar voice said, “Shit, dude,” and not one, but two sets of footsteps approached.

It took a second for Race’s vision to clear. “Shit, hi guys,” he managed around a sharp, shallow breath.

Jack and Albert stood over him, frowning.

“You look like shit,” Albert said.

Twice in one day. A bark of laughter pushed out of Race, and holy fuck did it hurt. He winced hard, and his hand automatically went for his side, but stopped half way over as he felt the IV moving with him. He shuddered, dropping his arm again. “Good to see you too, asshole.”

“You know, I always knew you’d get yourself stabbed someday,” Jack teased, plopping himself down into a chair, “I just didn’t expect it to take so long. Eighteen years, man—eighteen years people have been wanting to stab you, and only now did some bastard finally do it.”

Race couldn’t help but grin.  _ Finally _ Jack was dropping the ice queen act. “Hey man, that’s your own fault. God knows you’ve had plenty of opportunity.”

“And  _ plenty _ of desire,” Jack added.

“Wink.” Race winked at him.

Albert made a gagging noise and rolled his eyes. “So how long they gonna keep ya here, you think?”

Race shivered. “I don’t know. No one’s told me anything.”

_ Just like last time. _

Albert shrugged. “Sucks.”

Jack nodded in agreement with Albert’s assessment.

Looking around, Race saw it was just the three of them, and turned to his friends questioningly. “Where’d Mom and Dad go?”

Albert gestured vaguely towards the door. “Went to get coffee or something. Your mom didn’t say. What the fuck were you doing that got you stabbed?”

Race laughed shortly and painfully; things needed to stop being funny. “Oh, Spot an’ me were trying to get someone to buy booze for us so I could set stuff on fire.”

Jack snorted. “Sounds about— Wait.” He narrowed his eyes. “You and  _ Spot? _ ”

Race shrugged, feeling guilty. Why did he feel guilty? He wasn’t the one who had been shunning his friend. “Everyone else was being all weird, or mad.”

“Was the dick that good?”

Albert groaned miserably.

Race rolled his eyes. “He’s been less of an ass lately. Like, actually sorta nice.”

“Oh, so  _ your _ dick was that good. Got it,” Jack said flippantly. “He must not get around much.”

Race rolled his eyes again. “Shut up.”

The door clicked open, and all three sets of eyes darted to the threshold as a man stepped inside, smiling politely at Race. He didn’t look like a nurse or a doctor; he was dressed business casual. “Anthony Higgins?” he asked diplomatically.

A small frown creased Race’s brow. “Yeah?”

“I’m Dr. Seitz. I’m here to talk to you about some things.”

So, a doctor after all.

“Okay...?” Race was slightly confused and suspicious. This wasn’t the doctor who had checked on him earlier. Though granted he didn’t remember his arrival at the hospital, so it’s very possible that this man had in fact been involved.

Dr. Seitz turned to Jack and Albert. “Mind if I talk to Anthony alone for a bit?”

Jack and Albert both looked to Race, and he shifted uncomfortably. “I’d rather they stayed.”

Dr. Seitz pressed his lips together. “I’m afraid this is a conversation we can’t have with others in the room. I’m happy to wait, if another time would be better.”

Okay, now he was  _ very _ suspicious, but nevertheless, he looked at Jack and Albert. “Come back in, like, twenty minutes?”

“Sure, man,” Albert agreed.

Jack added, “We’ll be in the waiting room. No worries.”

Race nodded. “Thanks, guys.”

They left the room, shutting the door behind them, and Race turned an apprehensive gaze to Dr. Seitz.

Dr. Seitz offered him a well-rehearsed smile and pulled over a chair. “So, Anthony, I’ve heard the story from your doctors. Would you like to tell me what happened in your own words?”

Still unsure why this man was here, Race repeated the story.

The man nodded thoughtfully. “Does this sort of thing happen a lot?”

“I’ve never been stabbed before, no,” Race scoffed.

“I meant manic episodes. I understand you have hypomania and PTSD?”

Oh, so he’s one of  _ those _ doctors.

Race put forth a valiant effort not to cringe, but didn’t quite pull it off. “I guess?”

“Your parents said there was another incident a couple weeks ago,” Dr. Seitz said.

“Uh, which one?” Another cringe, he shouldn’t have said it that way.

Dr. Seitz cringed with him. That couldn’t be good. “Anthony, tell me, do you ever see or hear things that aren’t there?”

He frowned. “No.”

“Do you ever think about hurting yourself? Any thoughts of suicide?”

He shook his head.

“So this incident I’ve heard about with the bridge—that was the hypomania talking?” Dr. Seitz asked.

“I guess, yeah,” Race sighed. “I wasn’t really thinkin’ about it, I just sorta...did it.”

Dr. Seitz nodded thoughtfully. “Anthony, have you ever done any inpatient therapy?”

_ Oh god, not this again _ . “No.”

“Is that something you’re open to trying?”

“No,” Race repeated firmly.

“A lot of people find it very helpful.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said tightly.

“Well,” Dr. Seitz offered him a strained smile, “thank you for talking to me and being honest.”

Race didn’t quite manage a smile in response. “Sure.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

“Nope, nothin’.”

“Okay.” Another strained smile. “Feel better, Anthony.”

“Great, yeah, thanks,” he replied as Dr. Seitz headed out the door. Race plopped back against the pillows again, frowning as he waited for Jack and Albert to return.

* * *

Jack and Albert stayed for about another hour, talking with Race like everything was normal, and he was grateful for the distraction. At about five o’clock they had to head home, leaving Race by himself. He had texted his parents earlier, asking where they’d gone, and Mr. Higgins responded that they were out getting a few things, and they’d be back soon. Apparently ‘a few things’ meant multiple different pairs of soft sweatpants, four or five different t-shirts and hoodies, his toothbrush, his pillow and comforter, and some of the bedding from his parents’ bed, as well.

Race very nearly cried again as Mrs. Higgins set about making the conveniently present little couch by the window into a makeshift bed, explaining matter of factly, “After you fell asleep, the doctor told us they want to keep you for a few days, so we figured we’d better go get what we’d need.” She scoffed. “It’s not like we’d let you stay here alone.”

“How are you guys gonna fit?” Race looked at the couch doubtfully. Even with the back cushions moved off, it wasn’t even as wide as a twin bed and certainly not as long.

“Don’t worry about us, bud. We’ll take turns,” his father said.

Race frowned. “D’you think we could get them to bring another bed in? Or another couch?” This was, of course, ridiculous, but he asked anyway, not wanting his parents to be uncomfortable, not wanting to be even more of an inconvenience.

His father patted his arm and repeated, “Don’t worry about us. They’re going to move you in the morning, anyway.”

His frown deepened. “I don’t wanna be moved, I wanna go home.”

“I know, bud, but they have the stuff they need to take care of you.”

Race wriggled a bit, shrinking in on himself unhappily. “They already sewed me up and mummified my ribs; what else is there?”

“They need to change the dressing and watch for signs of infection,” his mother told him.

“We could do that,” he muttered, knowing full well they couldn’t—not as well as the doctors and nurses, anyway.

Mrs. Higgins stood by him and stroked his hair. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie. We’re right here. You’re not alone.”

Race bit his lip hard to keep it from trembling, and when he spoke again it was very quiet. “I don’t want to be here...”

“Oh, sweetie, I know.”

She leaned down and hugged him, careful of the various wires and tubes connected to him. Regardless of her care, she accidentally brushed one of the tubes, and Race shivered as he felt it. Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes again as he curled into his mom’s embrace, letting out a slow, shaky breath.

“I’m here, baby,” she said softly. “I’ve got you.”

Mr. Higgins approached on the other side and took Race’s hand.

“I wanna go home,” Race whimpered quietly.


	24. Transferred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race needs something he can’t get at Park Row Memorial Hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had a happy and safe New Year’s! This chapter is pretty intense. Exercise caution, lovelies.

Unsurprisingly, the night did not pass pleasantly, nor did the following days. Between his parents and his friends, Race was never alone, at least. During school hours, Mrs. Higgins stayed with him, until afternoon brought Albert and Jack, or Jojo and the guys from dance, and then Mrs. Higgins would go home for awhile. After the third day, Tommy Boy tried to convince Mr. and Mrs. Higgins—who had been taking turns—to let him take the night watch, and give them a break, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

Despite all of their best efforts to keep him distracted, Race was miserable. Being confined to a bed with an awful pain in his side was bad enough, but much worse was the remembering. Even so little as the smell of the hospital rubbed at old thoughts and wounds, leaving them raw and impossible to ignore. Race spent most of the nights awake, curled into a little ball and trying not to cry as he remembered what his father’s voice sounded like, remembered the agony that followed the crash, remembered how alone and scared he had been for so long.

Everyone insisted it wasn’t a problem, and they were happy to be with him, but Race could see how exhausted they all were, his parents most of all, and so guilt added it’s weight to his already heavy conscience. He knew this was all his fault and what a toll it must be taking on his parents, and on his friends as well, but he didn’t know how to fix it. His solutions had all been wildly misplaced overreactions, and flurry after flurry of bad choices. Nothing helped; it was all just getting worse and worse.

And then, on Friday, Dr. Seitz returned with a fake smile on his face and asked, “Do you mind if your parents stay while we talk?”

Race was immediately on guard. “Okay?”

With a heavy sigh, Dr. Seitz pulled up a chair and introduced himself to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. “I’m a psychiatrist here at the hospital. I spoke with Anthony the other day.”

After a round of generic ‘Nice to meet you’s, Dr. Seitz turned back to Race. “How are you feeling, Anthony?”

“Like I got stabbed a few days ago, how are you?”

“Better than that, I imagine.” Another fake smile. “I’m here to talk to you about treatment.”

Race smiled at him, more baring his teeth than anything. “Great.”

“I’ve talked to your doctors and your therapist, and...” Another sigh. “Anthony, there’s no better way to put this. We think you’re a danger to yourself.”

Race frowned. “I didn’t do anything. I’m not suicidal, I’ve never tried to hurt myself—”

Dr. Seitz interrupted, “This is more about...recklessness. You’ve had two close calls in the last few weeks. It’s clear that your medication isn’t working as well as we’d like it to, right?”

“I mean, I guess, but—”

His father cut him off this time with a gentle, “Tony, I think you should listen to him.”

Race huffed unhappily, crossing his arms, but he fell obediently quiet.

“We need to try some different things with your medication,” Dr. Seitz said, “but we need you to be safe while we do it.” An uncomfortable pause. “We’re sending you to the behavioral health center for treatment.”

Race’s blood ran cold, and his eyes widened in horrified shock. “No.”

Dr. Seitz held up a hand in a ‘stop’ gesture that was probably supposed to be calming. “I know the idea of inpatient treatment is intimidating, but the facility we work with is very nice. It’s not like being in a hospital—”

“I won’t do it, I won’t go.” Race tried to be firm, but his voice trembled a bit.

“Anthony, I’m afraid this is our call, and our number one priority is your health and safety.”

Unconsciously, he scooted a bit further back in the hospital bed, staring at this man in horror and trying to hold down the panic quickly rising in his throat. “I’m not going, you can’t make me. Dad—” He turned towards his father, reflexively seeking protection.

Mr. Higgins leaned down and pulled him into a hug. “It’s gonna be okay, bud.”

Race cowered into his father’s arms, hanging on for dear life as he continued babbling, “I won’t do it, I won’t, I’m not going.”

“Is there anything else we can do?” his mother asked quietly. “Anything outpatient? I could stay with him.”

“Medication is tricky,” Dr. Seitz told her. “We need to be able to monitor him until we find something that works.”

“I’m not going, I’m not going, I’m not going.” Race was barely even aware that those repeating words were coming from himself as his head began to swim in panicked static.

The last thing he heard clearly was his mother asking, “Don’t you need our consent?” before her conversation with the doctor turned into a jumbled sea of ‘eighteen’ and ‘adult’, then ‘transfer’ and ‘ambulance’.

“Nonononononono,” Race’s breathing had picked up nearly to the point of hyperventilation, and each inhale brought a stab of pain with it as his still damaged lungs heaved. He was holding onto his father’s arm tight enough that his nails pressed little half moons into Mr. Higgins’ skin as he murmured comforts and encouragements Race couldn’t quite make sense of. All he could focus on was the fact that the doctors were taking him away from his parents. “Dad, I don’t wanna go, I don’t want to, I don’t—“

The door opened, two nurses walked in with a gurney, and Race would’ve sworn his heart had stopped beating, if it wasn’t for the blood thundering in his ears. “No!” he cried out again, hanging onto his father even tighter, completely unaware of the tears that had begun to stream down his face.

“Everything’s okay, Anthony,” one of the nurses said. “We’re just going to move you, okay?”

“ _ No! _ ” He recoiled as if burned when she reached towards him, and would’ve launched himself off the bed if not for his father being in the way.

“I won’t— You  _ can’t _ —”

Mrs. Higgins had stood up and moved to his side, placing a shaking hand gently on his shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Tony, we’re gonna be right with you.”

Race barely even heard her, much too occupied with attempting to get away from the nurse, despite being unable to get off the bed and properly flee. The other nurse rounded to the other side of the bed and said something to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, but Race couldn’t tell what the words were. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling were growing increasingly bright, and he could hear the electricity buzzing in them like a swarm of angry bees. His parents stepped away, and the nurse placed a hand on his arm, gently pulling in an attempt to move him, and he pulled away desperately.

Mrs. Higgins was crying now, with both hands pressed tightly over her mouth, and for some reason Race could hear  _ that _ loud and clear. Mr. Higgins had his arms around her protectively and was watching Race with a pained look on his face, and Race found himself wondering why he was holding his mom, instead of him.  _ Someone _ was holding him, and he realized in a flash of fresh terror that it was one of the nurses, pressing his shoulders towards the bed while the other tried to fasten a belt over his middle. Race fought to push the nurse off of him. Someone was yelling—it was probably him—as he continued to thrash in an attempt at escape, or at least hindrance. He kicked and bucked wildly, preventing the nurse from securing the strap over his waist, and he reached to pry the other nurse’s hands off his shoulders. Everything was too fast, and too loud, and Race couldn’t think beyond his fear.

He didn’t want to go. He didn’t  _ need _ to go. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this, he hadn’t hurt anyone, he hadn’t hurt himself, he wasn’t dangerous, he wasn’t  _ crazy _ .

He couldn’t do it again—couldn’t be trapped in a dull, white room, alone and hurting, where the lights were too bright, and the mattress was too stiff, and the starchy sheets crinkled when he moved, and the blankets weren’t warm enough, and the food tasted muted and fake, and the air smelled like sickness and pain. He couldn’t do it again. Especially not this way, not because he was ‘unstable’ and ‘couldn’t be trusted on his own’.

Pain throbbed in his side, dull and oppressive, and the harder he fought, the more it hurt.

Apparently, somewhere in the echoing nonsense around him, someone had called for help, because the door opened again, and a third nurse came in, moving quickly towards the bed. Momentarily distracted by this, the other two nurses each got a firm grip on his shoulders, and together pressed him back into the mattress.

Race screamed and struggled fiercely, writhing against their grips, and it took a moment for him to even register the sharp pinch of pain in his arm. Race continued to thrash and pull, sobbing and crying out for help, as everything got softer at the edges. His vision swam, and the world grew hazier and hazier, and he felt weaker and weaker, until everything petered out into a soft, numb grayness. The last thing he was aware of was the look on his father’s face—sorrow, guilt, fear, and a host of other things that Race couldn’t decipher, before everything drifted away.

* * *

It didn’t take Spot long to come to the conclusion that Duane High School without Racetrack Higgins was peaceful as fuck. I mean, it was glorious. For two days, Spot got to—get this— _ just do his schoolwork _ . It felt like a breath of fresh air after being trapped in a collapsed coal mine with only a screeching parrot for company for several weeks. After three blissfully peaceful school days in a row, however, all Spot wanted was for a dumb blond twink to call him a dick and try to start a fight.

If someone had told Spot at the start of the school year that he would  _ miss _ Race when he was gone, they’d have finished their sentence with their teeth knocked out. By all accounts, Race was rude and annoying and out of control. When exactly the switch had flipped from being irritated by his presence to being entertained, Spot didn’t know. He didn’t care. It had happened, and it needed to flip back.

In the afternoon, he was lying on the couch, unable to focus at all on homework, when Aunt Beth returned home from work. He glanced back over the arm of the couch. “Hey.”

She offered him a tired smile. “Hi, Sean. How was school?”

“How’s Anthony?”

Only after the question left his mouth did he realize that it was not, in fact, an answer to Beth’s.

Her smile got a bit heavier, sympathetic. “He’s healing well.”

“How much longer does he have to stay?”

Aunt Beth didn’t quite sigh, moving to put her handbag down on the end table that stood by the door. “Well, I don’t really know. He was transferred today; it might be awhile.”

“Transferred?” Spot sat up. “Where?”

“I can’t tell you Sean—patient confidentiality.”

He sputtered. “I’m the one who brought him in!”

“You did, yes, but you aren’t family, or his spouse, so I can’t tell you,” Beth explained.

Spot dragged his hand through his hair restlessly. “But I—” he stammered. “He—”

Walking past towards the kitchen, she paused to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. “I know. I’m sorry, Sean.”

He huffed angrily, balling his hands into tight fists in his lap. Why would they transfer Race to another hospital? What did he need that they couldn’t provide at Park Row Memorial? Beth said he was healing well, so why...?


	25. What’re You In For?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race begins inpatient therapy at The Refuge Behavioral Health Center.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What follows is loosely based on my own inpatient experience. Big thanks to CMalfoy for giving us the idea for the name of the BHC!

Race woke up very suddenly. One minute he had been fighting and screaming, and now he was laying on his back, head lolled to the side, looking at a soft green wall. He sat up sharply—well, tried to—and was immediately jerked to a halt by the strap across his chest.

“Woah, hey...” a soft voice crooned. “You with us, Anthony?”

He felt like a live wire had been run through him, every inch on high alert. “Where am I?” he demanded. “What’s going on? Let me up.”

Race shifted fitfully, and in doing so found that there were belts across his waist and legs, as well as his chest, and his arms were strapped down as well.

“You’re at The Refuge Behavioral Health Center, on Main Street. You were transferred from Park Row Memorial Hospital for inpatient treatment. We will let you go, but you need to calm down.”

Race tried and failed to slow his breathing—he was mad, he was scared. It was a struggle, making himself lay still.

“Can you answer some questions for me?” the man asked. “Then we can get you right into your room and to dinner.”

“Let me up.” Race failed to keep his voice from wavering, and he glared at the ceiling.

He was in a psych ward, strapped down on a bed, and he couldn’t even see who was talking to him. Race wasn’t even slightly okay with any of this, but he knew enough to understand that the more trouble he was, the longer he’d have to stay.

There was a brief pause, then the man said, “I’m going to let just your arms out, okay?”

“Can I at least sit up? I won’t try to go anywhere.” He asked.

“Sure.” The man set about releasing him from his restraint that crossed his chest and arms. “Now, will you answer some questions for me, Anthony?”

The second he could, Race sat up sharply and looked warily around the room. There was nothing much in it, just a couple chairs and a cabinet. It didn’t look like a hospital room, but it sure was sterile like one. Race’s attention was primarily drawn to the three people in the room with him—the short man in glasses who was speaking to him, and a couple of the nurses from the hospital standing near the door.

The man quickly grabbed Race’s shoulder. “Hey, I know this is scary, but we’re here to help you, okay?”

Race instinctively jerked away, and he could feel his heart rate speeding up.

“Take a deep breath,” the man instructed, “in and out. You’re okay. You’re doing great.”

Race took a shaky breath, feeling very much like a cornered rabbit.

“Good.” The man stepped away for just a moment to grab a clipboard off the top of the cabinet. “Can you confirm your full name and date of birth for me?”

“Ra— Anthony Luca Higgins. September twenty-eighth, 2001.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Is there something you’d rather be called?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, Anthony...” The man went on to ask all the same questions he’d been asked a million times over the last couple weeks about medication, suicidal thoughts, and reckless behavior. “Are you sexually active?”

If he hadn’t been as wound up as he was, he would’ve laughed. “Yeah,”

“How many sexual partners have you had?”

“Aaa lot?”

The man cringed for the briefest moment before restoring his kind, professional demeanor. “If you were to guess?”

It was rather hard to pull a coherent and calculating thought through the alarms blaring in his head. “Uhh...maybe twelve? Fourteen? I dunno...”

“And are these...women? Men? Both?”

“Mostly men.”

“Do you use protection?”

“Mosta the time.” Race was still very uneasy, and very unhappy, but talking was actually helping calm him down a good bit.

“That’s...” The man hesitated. “Good.”

Race wasn’t really listening, looking around the room and thinking how the nurses by the door seemed a lot like guards.

“Just a few more questions, and we’ll get you settled into a room, okay?” the man told him.

Race glanced back towards the man briefly, acknowledging that he spoke, before looking around again.

The man asked him about hallucinations, which Race had none, then, “Is there anything else you think we should know?”

He shook his head again.

“Okay,” the man concluded. “We’ll get you some clothes to change into, then show you to your room.”

He disappeared for just a moment and returned with another nurse, who was holding a pair of thin, green scrubs.

“Where are my parents?” Race asked, wiggling a little against the strap still across his lap.

“Well, I don’t know exactly, Anthony,” said the man, releasing the rest of Race’s restraints. “They followed the ambulance here and got you checked in. I don’t know if they’re still here.”

For some reason, Race felt very betrayed. “Oh...” He turned and swung his legs over to stand up, absently accepting the clothes handed to him.

“You can call them, and they can visit you,” the man assured him. “Hurry up and get changed; it’s almost time for dinner.”

“Are you gonna leave, or am I not allowed to be alone?” Race asked flatly.

The man pressed his lips together. “We can turn around, if you want,” he offered apologetically.

Race sighed. “I guess it doesn’t really matter,” he muttered, discarding his own comfy t-shirt and sweatpants for the flimsy scrubs. The waistband was much too big, and the papery drawstring didn’t do much to remedy the situation. He felt like he was wearing a cheap party decoration.

The man offered him a smile. “Come on, we’ll get you in a room before dinner.”

Race didn’t have the energy to even attempt to return the smile. He followed quietly. As much as he hated it, he knew that if he didn’t behave, things would just get worse.

The man and the nurse led him down a dim hallway lined with heavy doors to a room that, to its benefit, looked more like a shitty dorm than a hospital room. Race stayed in the doorway, staring for a moment before he went in. There were two beds and a small attached bathroom with a curtain instead of a door. The pillows on the beds were attached to the mattresses, and the bed on the unclaimed side of the room didn’t have any blankets or sheets. The bed nearest the door looked recently slept in, and there were some clothes in the closet. A few steps in, Race turned around to look at the man. “Do I not get blankets?”

“You will,” he said somewhat cryptically.

Race frowned slightly. “What does  _ that _ mean?”

“You just got here. We need to make sure you’re completely stable, then you can have blankets and your own clothes.”

Race sighed. ‘Very nice facility’. Right.

“It’s not a punishment,” the man told him. “Everything we do, we do for a reason.”

Probably cause he was ‘dangerous’. Sweatpants could make a formidable weapon. He sighed again. “Right.”

“Would you like a few minutes to yourself before dinner?”

“I’m guessing I don’t get my phone, either?” he asked, rather than answering the question.

“No, but you can use our phone to make calls.”

“Where is it?”

“In the common area down the hall.”

He nodded, and there was a silent moment as he looked at the two standing in the doorway. “So, can I go, or...?”

“Sure, sure.”

The two stepped out of the way and Race brushed past them, heading down the hallway in the direction that seemed to lead to an open space rather than more hallways and rooms.

The common area was a large room with a wall lined with large windows, and a spattering of couches and chairs around. There was a TV bolted to one wall, up well out of reach, a table with some chairs around it, and a bookshelf in one corner.

Race scanned the room quickly, barely making note of eight other people, and spotted the telephone on the left hand wall. He made a beeline for it, and very nearly tripped over a boy with black hair who was sitting in a chair with his legs stretched out in front of him.

“Shit, sorry,” Race said, recovering.

The boy waved him off, clearly more interested in the TV than the klutzy new kid. “Don’t mention it.”

With an awkward nod, Race continued over to the phone and put it to his ear as he punched in his mother’s number, which was one of the few numbers he had memorized. The phone rang a few times. He wasn’t sure she would answer a number she didn’t recognize. Then, after what felt like forever, he heard her voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi, momma...”

“Anthony!?” his mother gasped. “Oh my god, sweetie, are you okay? How are you doing?”

Race pressed his lips tight together, willing himself not to cry. “Yeah, I’m okay, I guess...”

“They said we could visit you after dinner, if you were feeling okay.”

He let out a short, frustrated breath. “Who gets to decide if I’m feeling okay?”

There was a short pause before she answered. “I don’t know. Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry...”

“Mom, please don’t cry. If you cry, I’m gonna cry, and I really don’t wanna cry.” Race attempted to keep his voice light, but he just sounded defeated.

“Okay,” his mother whimpered. “Okay, I won’t. You’re father wants to talk to you.”

Race nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see him. “Yeah, okay.”

He heard a shuffle, then his father’s voice.

“Hey, buddy,” his father said breathlessly. “How are you holding up?”

His use of the childhood nickname felt a bit like a punch to the gut. “I mean I’m alive.” He winced, yikes. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t—”

“It’s okay, Tony. Don’t you worry.”

For what it was worth, Mr. Higgins seemed like he was worrying a lot.

“Dad, I don’t—” Race’s voice wavered, and he closed his eyes, taking a breath before starting again. “I don’t want to be here.”

“I know, Tony. I know, but—” Mr. Higgins let out an agitated sigh. “The doctors are right, Tony. We have to do something.”

A flash of anger ran hot through Race’s chest. “And the best option is locking me up in a place where I’m not allowed to have sheets or blankets on my bed?”

“Yes,” his father snapped back, “because you are my baby, and I’ll be damned before I see you in the ground.”

Race didn’t have an answer, just a hot bubble of anger and sorrow in his chest. He hadn’t known how little his father trusted him. He didn’t  _ belong _ here. He hadn’t even tried to hurt himself, he didn’t  _ want _ to hurt himself. Sure some crazy shit had happened, but that could’ve happened to anyone!

“I would do anything to keep you safe, God as my witness, Tony,” his father said. “You are the most important thing in the world to me and your mother. Please, just focus on getting better so you can come home.”

Race opened his mouth to answer, but he noticed a girl standing nearby, very carefully not looking at him, and very obviously waiting to use the phone.

“I’m gonna have to go, dad. Someone else wants the phone,” Race said.

“Okay. We’ll see you soon, bud. We love you so much.”

He sighed,” Love you too, dad,” and hung up the phone before turning to look around the room again.

More than anything, he was just tired. Tired of shit going wrong, tired of people treating him like he was crazy—he  _ wasn’t _ crazy—tired of people not trusting him, making choices for him. Plus, his side still ached from the whole stabbing thing.

After a moment of staring aimlessly around, Race decided to just go back to his room. On the way, he absently wondered if someone was going to watch while he showered, since they were still deciding whether or not he was ‘completely stable’. Walking back in, the room seemed even more desolate than before. His roommate had some clothes in his closet, and a book laying on the bedside table. Even that little bit, along with his sheets and—still thin and pitiful—blanket, left Race’s side looking like a nuclear wasteland, comparatively. He had  _ nothing _ . No clothes, no sheets, no blankets, nothing at all. With a displeased sigh he went over and sat down on the bed. Surprise, it wasn’t very comfortable. He pushed a hand through his hair, glancing towards the window on the far wall. He didn’t understand why he was on suicide watch if he was in for ‘recklessness’. It’s not like he could recklessly rope some sheets into a noose and hang himself; that was a more intentional sort of thing.

Someone knocked on the open door, and he turned to tell whatever doctor or nurse was there to follow his every move to fuck off, but instead saw a guy about his age, with pale skin and dark hair, wearing a gray hoodie and sweatpants.

“Hey,” the guy said, stepping into the room.

Race blinked. “Hey,”

The guy flopped down on the other bed. “What’re you in for?” he asked.

“I need to be monitored till they decide if I’m ‘a danger to myself and others’ or not,” Race said flatly.

“Nice,” the guy responded in a similar tone. “Don’t worry; I didn’t have blankets my first night, either.”

Race let out a small, politely amused huff. “Guess I’m fitting in already.”

The guy—his roommate, he assumed—chuckled dryly, looking up at the ceiling. At first Race didn’t pursue further conversation. He didn’t want to ‘settle in’, or get to know the people here, but after about seven minutes he realized he would die of boredom if he didn’t do something right there and then.

“Why are you here?”

“Knocked back a bottle of sleeping pills,” his roommate answered casually. “M’ sister caught me.”

Race nodded. “Sounds like a good time.”

“Oh yeah, great.”

A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Time for dinner,” she said before disappearing back down the hallway.

Race’s roommate sat up and deadpanned, “Yay.” He stood and headed for the door. “You comin’?”

After a brief hesitation, Race followed. Refusing meals and hermiting in your room probably wasn’t encouraged behavior.

“I’m Race, by the way.”

“Race,” his roommate repeated. “Cool. I’m Alex. People call me Sniper.”

Race nodded. “Got it. Cool.”

They followed the flow of nurses and patients through a labyrinth of halls to a small cafeteria, where Race finally got a good look at the rest of the patients. There was about an equal number of women as men, and they appeared to range in age from about eighteen well into middle age. Only one other boy, who looked to be a couple years older than Race, was dressed in scrubs.

Feeling wildly out of place, Race followed Sniper to a table where a couple other boys were seated. They exchanged hellos, and Sniper gestured to Race as they sat down. “This is my new roomie, Race.”

Race nodded uncomfortably in greeting.

One of the boys was the one he had tripped over. “What’s up?” he said in greeting. “I’m Henry.”

Race sat down in one of the unoccupied chairs. “Hey.”

“I’m Bill,” said the other boy with brown hair and really pretty eyes.

“Everyone calls him ‘Mush’,” Henry said, and Race nodded, not really caring enough to ask the sources of these nicknames.

“This your first day?” Mush asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Race replied, leaning back a bit as a nurse came over and placed a plastic tray in front of him. The other boys got trays as well, their plates covered in those weird, dark green, circular, plastic covers that they have in hospitals for some reason.

Mush wore the same short-sleeved, green scrubs as Race, revealing a checkerboard of angry marks on his forearms, some scarred and others scabbed. Mush noticed Race looking and raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Race quickly looked away. “Yeah, sorry.”

Mush shrugged. “I don’t care.”

Race didn’t really know how to answer that, but was spared from having to do so anyway when Henry asked him, “So, why are you here?”

Race looked over at him and shrugged. “I got stabbed, and apparently that’s my fault.”

“Didja deserve it?” Mush asked.

This pulled a short huff of laughter from Race. “Probably, I’ve been told I’m kind of a dick.”

“You must have been doing something stupid, or you wouldn’t be here,” Henry said. “You manic or something?”

Race winced, was it really that obvious? “Yeah...”

“Nice.” Henry held up his hand for a high-five. “Twinsies.”

Race blinked, surprised, and hesitated for half a beat before reaching out and clapping his hand against Henry’s. It wasn’t that he was unused to people taking his mental state lightly; most of his friends were just as nihilistically humorous about it as he was. He just hadn’t expected that sort of response in a place like this.

“I’ve been on a depressive swing, actually,” Henry clarified. “Bipolar bullshit.”

Sniper and Mush nodded absently.

Race nodded. “I’m hypomanic, so I guess, like, mini-bipolar?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that,” Mush said, only half tuned into the conversation as he tried to cut a piece of chicken with a plastic spoon. Eventually he gave up, stabbed the whole thing with his fork, and took bites off it that way.

Race looked down at his own tray and wasn’t at all surprised to not see a knife with the rest of his plastic cutlery. He wasn’t really hungry to begin with, anyway. “Do we get in trouble if we don’t eat?” he asked whoever was listening.

“Nah,” Sniper answered, “but it might earn you some extra therapy.”

Race curled his lip in displeasure. “Sounds fun.”

Henry shrugged, “Therapy’s not so bad,” and Sniper scoffed.

Race looked between them briefly, landing on Sniper. “What’s it like?”

“What, therapy?” Sniper frowned. “It’s just...bullshit.”

“Right but like, how? Is it any worse than normal therapy?”

“Nah, regular therapy sucks balls, too,” Sniper grumbled, slumping back in his chair.

Race half chuckled, poking absently at his dinner with a plastic fork. “Yeah it’s pretty shit. It doesn’t even help, just dredges stuff up and makes you miserable for an hour while you get scolded and given bad advice.”

“We do group therapy here, too,” Mush said. “So there’s that.”

Race cringed, not at all liking the idea of having to talk about his issues in front of a crowd of strangers. “I’m guessing both are mandatory?”

“Sorta,” Mush told him. “I mean, you can refuse, but they won’t let you go if they don’t think you’re better.”

Race sighed heavily. “What’s the usual turnaround rate in this place?”

“Depends,” Sniper told him. “Some people get stabilized and are out in a couple days. I’ve been here two months.”

Yikes. Race let out a slow breath, considering. He was usually pretty good at playing it off like nothing was wrong and he was totally normal. Granted, things hadn’t been very much in the usual way lately. Still, with some actual effort, he’d probably be able to fake a quick recovery, if one didn’t come naturally.

Mush waved at him dismissively, rolling his eyes. “Sniper’s been sabotaging himself in therapy. You won’t be here that long.”

Sniper just shrugged, and Race frowned at him, perplexed. “Why would you sabotage yourself?”

“Uh, I don’t wanna go home?”

“Why?” Race couldn’t imagine preferring a psych ward over home.

Sniper looked at him like he was an idiot. “Because my father beats the shit outta me, sweet summer child.”

Race blinked. “Fuck, sorry. That was real dumb of me. Sorry.”

“What about you? You wanna go home?” Henry asked.

Race let out a brief, sharp huff of laughter. “Yeah.”

“That’s good,” Mush said. “Means you got somethin’ to work for.”

Another unamused huff. “‘S not like I’m here on purpose.”

Mush made a similar noise. “What, and the rest of us are here on playtime? No one’s here on purpose; most of us tried to die.”

“Wh— Well yeah, no, I get that. I mean I shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“Why not? You ain’t crazy, like the rest of us?” Mush scoffed.

Race bristled. “No. I’m not.” He replied tightly.

“Right. Your wrists are still pretty, so you’re better than us.”

“Let it go, Mush,” Henry muttered.

Race laughed sharply as his mind darted under the thin barrier of his scrubs and ran over his wrecked skin. “‘Pretty’, right.” He snarled under his breath before continuing at a normal tone. “If you’re sayin’ I didn’t try to kill myself, then no, I didn’t. Didn’t have to, everything else fuckin’ tried it for me.” He stood up and kicked his chair back into the table and said shortly, “I’m going back to my room,” before turning and heading back down the hallway. 

Back in his room, Race dropped onto his bed, barely registering how stiff the mattress was through his anger. He  _ wasn’t _ crazy. Lots of stuff had gone wrong in his life, and it had taken a toll, sure, but he wasn’t  _ crazy _ . He had a handle on it, on all of it. He was  _ fine _ .

Though the constant throbbing pain in his side begged to differ.

He rolled onto his side and glared at the wall, hearing Mush’s words in his head again. He hadn’t said he was better than anybody. He didn’t even think he was! All he’d said was he didn’t belong here, and he  _ didn’t _ . He didn’t.

* * *

At about six forty-five, there was a knock on the door, and Race rolled over to see a nurse standing in a doorway with a well practiced smile on her face.

“Hey, Anthony. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, fantastic,” he replied flatly, smiling with barely veiled hostility.

Although she almost certainly noticed, she didn’t acknowledge it, simply nodding and continuing, “That’s good. You’ve got some visitors in the common area, if you feel—”

Before she finished her sentence, he was on his feet and moving towards the door.

“Oh, okay. Good,” she said brightly, stepping out of the way and starting down the hallway with Race on her heels.

They rounded the corner into the common area, and Race immediately spotted his parents, looking wildly out of place, sitting at a table near the edge of the room. They both stood up when they saw him, eyes widening.

“Tony,” his mother gasped, and he could see she was trying not to cry.

Race broke into a half run, and crashed into her waiting arms, burying his face in her shoulder to smother any potential tears. The impact knocked her back a step into Mr. Higgins, who simply threw his arms around the both of them and held on tight.

Mrs. Higgins carded her hand through Race’s hair and cooed tearfully, “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s just going to be a little while. They’re going to fix your medication and send you home.”

Race took a shaky breath, feeling very small and defenseless. “Mom, nothing’s gonna fix it. We’ve tried so many different things, and they don’t do anything except make me flat and dead-eyed.”

“They’ll figure it out,” she insisted. “They will—they have to. We can’t do this again, sweetie.” She choked up at the end of her sentence.

“I didn’t wanna do it this time...” he mumbled.

“I know, sweetie. That’s why we have to get your medication in order.”

“Tony,” his father said as he and his mother released him, and he put his hand on the side of his head, “you have a wonderful brain. You’re so smart. You’re witty and funny. It just needs a little help.”

“That’s a real weird compliment, dad.”

Mr. Higgins laughed. “So it is, bud. It’s still true.”

“I don’t get why we can’t do it at home,” Race grumbled.

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins looked at each other uncomfortably.

“They’re just being careful, sweetie...” Mrs. Higgins sighed softly.

He frowned. That look meant something, there was something else. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing important, bud,” his father told him, “just that they told us we can’t.”

His frown deepened. Why were they keeping things from him? This was  _ his _ treatment, wasn’t it? Didn’t he have a right to know?

When it was clear that Race wasn’t satisfied with his answer, Mr. Higgins took a deep breath and explained, “They’re going to be making changes to your medication. They said that could make you volatile. Until they figure out what works, you may not be yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We don’t know, Tony. That’s the problem. We’re talking about brain chemistry here.”

“I can’t protect you,” Mrs. Higgins said suddenly. She had been very quiet throughout this exchange, and now she looked like she was going to be sick. “You’d be with me all day, and if something goes wrong, if something they give you messes with your head—” She let out a short breath. “You’re bigger than me, sweetie. If you got it in your head to do something bad, I couldn’t stop you.”

Race’s eyes widened. “Wh— I wouldn’t—”

Mrs. Higgins let out a broken sob as tears began to fall. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Mr. Higgins pulled her close as she continued to murmur nonsensical apologies. Race felt hurt and guilty. This was his fault. He hadn’t even done anything, and it was still his fault. His father’s arms around his mother—usually a comforting, ‘right’ thing to see—felt like walls, shutting him out.

“What kind of mother can’t protect her own baby?” Mrs. Higgins said, barely coherent.

“Mom, no...” he didn’t even know what to say.

His father looked over at him and shook his head very seriously. “It’s not your fault, Tony.”

“No, but it  _ is _ .” Race said, and the words—unfortunately—brought tears with them to itch behind his eyes.

This only made his mother cry harder, and she broke free of his father’s hold and reached out to him instead. Race hesitated, feeling like he’d just do more damage, but he realized it would be worse if he didn’t, so he quickly stepped into his mother’s embrace.

“We’re going to figure this out, Tony,” Mr. Higgins said, laying a hand on Race’s back. “It may just take a little time.”


	26. Being Squishy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race’s first full day at The Refuge Behavioral Health Center

Race rolled over to his other side for what must have been the thirtieth time. Trying to sleep without a blanket or even a sheet was damned uncomfortable, and the bare mattress was scratchy. More than the physical discomfort, Race was wildly upset knowing that he was in a hospital—actually ‘a very nice facility’, but close enough—and he was alone.

Well, not quite alone.

“You okay, man?” Sniper mumbled sleepily from his side of the room.

“I’m fine,” Race replied, not at all fine.

Sniper scoffed. “Yeah, right. Here.”

Race heard a rustling noise, then soft footsteps approaching. He looked up in confusion to see Sniper, only barely illuminated by the moonlight through the window, offering him a blanket.

Race frowned at him, confused. “I’m not supposed to have—”

“Who cares?” Sniper snapped. “It’s fuckin’ cold in here at night.”

Race blinked. Fair enough. He shrugged and accepted the blanket. “Thanks...”

“No problem.” Sniper returned to his own bed and climbed back in. He seemed comfortable enough, still having sheets and warm clothes.

Race wound himself into the blanket, curling up tight. Sniper was right; it  _ was _ cold, but Race was more grateful for the slight feeling of security that comes with wrapping up in a blanket.

“Who was that who came to visit you?” Sniper asked.

“M’ parents,” Race answered.

“Huh. They don’t look like you.”

Race didn’t quite cringe. “Yeah no, I was adopted.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” He heard another shift, and then a grumble. “‘Least they like you.”

Race didn’t answer that. What are you supposed to say when a stranger has told you their father beats them? It was probably rude or insensitive to ask, but Race was nothing if not a nosy dumbass. “Is it just your dad, or is your mom bad too?”

“Both, but my mom’s small, so she can’t really hurt me anymore,” Sniper told him. He talked about it so casually, he might as well have been discussing the weather.

Race winced, struck by the parallel of his conversation with his parents earlier that day, about how he was too big for his mother to protect him. “That’s fucked up, man.”

“Yeah,” Sniper chuckled. “I didn’t even realize it until I was, like, thirteen. They treat my sisters better. They planned them.”

Race’s eyebrows went up in mild surprise. “Oh, that’s even more fucked up.”

Sniper grunted bitterly in what sounded like agreement, and the room descended into uncomfortable silence. Race found himself feeling a little guilty for having such wonderful parents. This was silly, of course, but even so.

“What are you gonna do when you get out?” he asked.

“If I get out?” Sniper said louder than was strictly necessary. “Probably try jumping off a bridge, this time. Less room for error.”

Race couldn’t help a small snort of laughter. “Just make sure your fuck buddy doesn’t show up and drag you off the railing before you tip over.”

“Dude, what?”

Race sat up on his bed, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. “S’ kinda a long story…?” He said it like a question, offering to tell if Sniper wanted. Sniper answered by sitting up as well and looking towards him.

Race let out a blustering huff of breath, deciding where to start. He went on to tell Sniper the whole story—Spot terrorizing him in third grade and then showing back up. The fighting, the fucking. The fight with his parents and the resulting disappearing act.

“An’ while I was sittin’ there, just lookin’ at the water, I heard someone shout my name, and I barely had a chance to look around before Spot was draggin’ me back off the railing.”

“I thought you said you got stabbed.”

This brought a short laugh out of Race. “Yeah that was a bit later. Everyone was mad at me for the whole running off thing, and Spot was actually being kinda nice, it was weird. Anyway, I sorta impulsively asked if he wanted to hang out, and that ended up with me buggin’ some folks outside a liquor shop, and one dude called me a psycho, so I hit him, and the fucker stabbed me.”

“Hypomania,” Sniper chuckled. “Seeing it, now. No wonder they stuck you in here.”

Race frowned. “I got a handle on it. Yeah, that whole bit was nuts, but that wasn’t my fault.”

Sniper held up his palms as if to surrender, but the smug look on his face suggested that he didn’t believe it. He laid back down and stared at the ceiling, and his expression changed to something more thoughtful, but not in a good way. “I don’t really want to be here, either,” he said.

“Where do you wanna be?”

He shook his head, and an empty smile made its way onto his face. “Nowhere.” He looked back at Race. “You know, my mother once told me I can’t do anything right. Guess it’s true, after all.” He scoffed. “Bitch had the audacity to cry when they were hauling me off in the ambulance.”

“...Man, I’m real sorry. That sucks.” It probably sounded like empty sympathy, but Race truly felt for this kid. No one deserves that.

“Ah, what the hell?” Sniper sighed. “My father’s gonna kill me, anyway.”

“Why don’t’cha go somewhere else?”

“Got nowhere else to go.”

“No other family or nothin’?” Race was vaguely aware that this was probably insensitive, but he was curious, and had very little self control when it came to curiosity.

“Got a grandma in Florida and no money to get there.” Sniper shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and my parents’ll ship me off.”

Race was quiet for a moment, thinking. His gut reaction was to try and find a way to help, and airplane tickets weren’t  _ that _ expensive. Maybe if he talked to his parents…

“Anyway,” Sniper went on, defeated, “you should try to sleep. They’ll wake you up for breakfast.”

“What am I supposed to do about the blanket?” Race asked, figuring he shouldn’t push further into this sensitive subject.

“If you’re worried, I’ll take it back.” Sniper yawned. “If not, they’ll probably just give me a slap on the wrist. No biggie.”

Race hesitated. He knew Sniper didn’t mind getting in trouble, but Race wanted out as fast as he could. “Y’should probably take it back...”

“Whatever you say.”

* * *

Race was already awake when the nurse came to get them for breakfast. He hadn’t really slept, all night. Breakfast consisted of shitty cereal in pre-packaged, plastic bowls, and then it was time for group therapy. About twelve patients and one therapist crowded around the perimeter of a too-small room, sitting in the kind of uncomfortable, plastic chairs you might find at a preschool. Mush was there, as was Henry. Sniper had been randomly assigned to a different group.

“Alright, alright,” the therapist—who looked much too young to be a therapist—began with a tired smile. “As always, let’s start by introducing ourselves. Tell us your name and a little bit about you. For example,” she cleared her throat, “my name is Katherine, and in my free time, I enjoy writing.”

Oh boy, ice-breakers. Race sighed as he dropped into his chair and only half listened as his groupmates introduced themselves one by one. After four or five people, it was Race’s turn.

“Hey, I’m Tony, and I dance,” said with no emotion in his voice except boredom.

He tuned everyone out again until they reached Henry—“I’m Henry, I’m bipolar, and I’d sell you all to Satan to get some decent pizza right about now.”—and Mush—“I’m Bill, and I hate this place.”—across the circle. Race couldn’t help letting out a small chuckle at each.

Once they made their way back around to Katherine, she smiled. “Great. It’s really important for us to remember that we’re all here for the same reason—to improve ourselves and our lives. This is a safe, supportive environment. Does anyone have anything they’d like to talk through, today?”

One of the girls in the circle raised her hand, and after a prompting nod from Katherine, began to talk about her abusive ex-boyfriend. Race listened for a minute or so before his mind began to wander aimlessly. He wondered what he’d missed in school over the past few days, what he’d missed at dance. Jack and Albert probably hung out without him—which was totally reasonable—and he briefly wondered how the biology project was going, which led to a Spot-centric train of thought. Of all people, why was  _ Spot _ the one who showed up on the bridge? How did he even know to look in Brooklyn? And he’d started being actually kinda nice… It then occurred to Race that maybe it was pity. Spot didn’t know the tragic backstory, but seeing a kid ready to fall off the Brooklyn Bridge is plenty of cause for pity. Race frowned at this idea. He didn’t like being pitied, but even if Spot  _ had _ just agreed to hang out out of pity, Race still owed him his life. Twice. That was quite a debt to carry for a childhood bully turned project partner.

The door to the therapy room opened, and a nurse stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt. Anthony?”

Race looked up, mildly surprised and definitely confused. “Yeah?”

“You have visitors. I can ask them to wait if you’d like to finish therapy, or—”

Race was out of his seat before he even finished his sentence and quickly followed him out the door. He hadn’t expected his parents back so early, and he wasn’t sure whether to be happy to see them or nervous. He followed the nurse back to the common area that was currently empty, save for Race’s...no, not Race’s parents. Jack and Albert.

Race stopped, surprised, before a wide grin spread across his face, and he headed towards them. “Shit. Hi, guys.”

“Hey,” Jack said, smiling briefly at Race before looking around the room. “This isn’t how I pictured a mental hospital, at all.”

“Oh yeah, it’s a very nice facility,” Race said, voice dripping in sarcasm.

“It’s nicer than I expected, dipshit. And hey, you’re not in a straight jacket! Bonus!”

Race cringed out a smile. “Probably too much of a suicide risk. I’m sure I could figure out some way to strangle myself with the straps.”

“Yeah, nothing to strangle yourself with, here,” Albert snickered, gesturing at Race’s scrubs. “Oh, hey.” He lowered his voice. “I brought you some contraband.” He reached under his jacket and pulled out a Capri-Sun.

Race snorted with laughter. “Jesus Christ, man, they should go on and sponsor you at this point.”

“Strawberry-kiwi.” Albert winked and handed it over. “What do they feed you in a place like this?”

“Cardboard that’s cleverly shaped like grilled chicken,” Race replied, stabbing the little plastic straw through the foil.

“Careful with that, now.” Jack held out a cautioning hand. “You could cut yourself on that packet.”

Race laughed again. “Thank god you’re here to keep me safe.”

For the first time since arriving, a proper smile found its way onto his face. He’d missed these idiots, even though he saw them only two days ago. He’d been in the behavioral health center for less than twenty-four hours, but that short time had already stretched itself into forever.

“Holy shit, man. You should hear the rumors that have cropped up about you being gone,” Albert said, and Jack burst out laughing as he continued. “Okay, get this. Your parents sent you away because you’re transgender and got pregnant out of wedlock.”

“It’s mine, I’m the father,” Jack added.

Race gaped for a second before erupting into laughter. “ _ What? _ ”

Jack was laughing so hard, he was wiping tears out of his eyes. “I don’t know, man. Some little freshman went up to Albert and asked if it was true.”

Race gasped, still laughing as he turned to Albert. “And you said ‘yes’!?”

“No, I told her you got stabbed, and that started a new rumor that you’re in a gang.”

Jack nodded. “Which then morphed with the other one, so now apparently you got knocked up by your gang leader and taken to a safe house.”

“I’m gonna name the baby after you.” Race gestured weakly at Albert, nearly crying with laughter.

“Try not to die birthing him through your dick.”

Race was wheezing, bent half way over and laughing so much that a stitch had developed in his side. When the laughing finally died down, he asked, “Have I missed anything important, aside from my sudden rise to fame?”

“Nah.” Jack shrugged. “It’s just school. It’s boring.”

Race huffed. “Better than here.”

“What do you even do in here?” Albert asked, eyeing the bland room distastefully.

“Well, I sit a lot. There’s a TV, but someone else is always using it. And there’s both group therapy  _ and _ solo therapy, so that’s a blast. Oh, and a nurse brings me drugs in a little paper cup before I try to sleep on a bed with no sheets or blankets.”

Jack and Albert both cringed.

“Yeah it’s fuckin’ great.” Race bared his teeth more than smiled. “I can really feel it working—such a healing atmosphere.”

“You’ll be outta here soon enough,” Jack said, shrugging. “I’d rather this than you die, y’know?”

Race sighed. “Yeah, everyone keeps sayin’ that.”

“We keep saying it, ‘cause it’s true,” Albert told him gently. It wasn’t like Albert to be gentle.

Race opened his mouth to defend himself. He wasn’t going to die, he hadn’t done anything, but it seemed that every time he said that, people just got upset, so he sighed and shut his mouth again. “Yeah...” There was a pause before he spoke again. “Hey, thanks for coming to see me, guys.”

Jack batted his shoulder affectionately. “O’course. We love you, man.”

“That’s gay.”

* * *

After Jack and Albert left, Race decided to hang out in the common room for awhile—still a bland, soulless room, but at least it was a  _ different _ bland, soulless room. The Great British Baking show was playing on the TV up high on the wall, and that was better than nothing. Henry plopped into the chair next to him, and the proximity was nice. Even if they were basically strangers, at least he wasn’t alone.

A little while later, the doctor with the glasses returned. He smiled at Race. “Hi, Anthony. How are you doing?”

Race mostly stifled a sigh. “Just peachy. How are you?”

“I’m doing great, thanks. If you’ll come with me, I’d like to talk about your treatment.”

He technically smiled in answer, and stood up. “Sure.”  _ Let me guess, I’ve been signed up for electroshock therapy _ .

The man led him to a nearby office, talking along the way. “We never got properly introduced, Anthony. I’m Dr. Bunsen, one of the psychiatrists on staff. I’ve been assigned to your case.” He gestured to a seat in front of a desk and moved to sit down in one on the other side.

“That’s nice,” Race said flatly as he sat down.

“So correct me if I’m wrong,” Dr. Bunsen said, picking up and looking at a piece of paper that was on the desk. “You’ve been on Lamictal for a few weeks now. Have you noticed much of a difference?”

Race shrugged. “Usually it makes me feel sorta...” He held his hands horizontally, one over the other, and moved the top one down to the other, making a ‘squishing’ motion. “Squished. But I haven’t really noticed it so much lately.”

Dr. Bunsen nodded thoughtfully. “Have you noticed any strange side-effects?”

“Bein’ squishy doesn’t count?”

“Being squishy is pretty normal.”

Race frowned. “Well, that sucks.”

“The hope is that it will fade,” the doctor told him. “Right now, you’re on a low dose. I’d like to try raising it and see if that helps.”

“Okay.” Race paused for a moment before continuing in a quieter voice, with less bite in it. “When can I go home?”

“As soon as we find something that works.”

Race sighed, slumping a little in his chair. “How long ‘s that gonna take?” He knew there wasn’t any sort of reliable answer to the question, but he asked anyway.

The doctor sighed. “There’s no way to know until we try.”


	27. Don't Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday rolls around, Race is still in The Refuge, and Spot still doesn't know where he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the same scene twice, once from each point of view. Do not be alarmed.

Spot spent AP Biology working on his paper by himself, but he didn’t get much done. He was having a lot of trouble not knowing where Race was, after the idiot had almost died on his watch. He couldn’t stop thinking about that day—how suddenly everything had changed, the blood, the sharp terror in Race’s blue eyes when they tore him away from Spot. Maybe he felt like he owed the guy something, which was dumb. If anything,  _ Race _ owed  _ him _ .

Beth wouldn’t tell him anything, and he didn’t particularly feel like showing up at Race’s house and talking to his parents, so his best option seemed to be approaching Jack and Albert at lunch. The two were having a conversation with some other boy, all laughing at something Jack had said, but the laughter died down as they noticed him approaching.

Spot stopped at a respectable distance from them and took a breath. “Hey, do you guys know where Race is?”

Albert frowned. “Yeah, he’s in the hospital.”

Jack glanced at his friend for a moment and stood up, looking towards Spot. “Thank you...for takin’ him to get help.”

Spot pressed his lips together tight. Snapping at these two wouldn’t do him any good. “Look, I know he got transferred. Do you know where to?”

“Why do you care?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Come off it Albert, he saved his life.”

“Yeah, Albert,” Spot snapped. Oops.

Jack looked back to him with raised eyebrows and Albert snarled at him, standing as well.

“Fuck off Conlon.”

Spot laughed. “You wanna go, man?”

Albert began to step around the table, and Jack threw his hands up.

“Jesus Christ, you’re both children.”

“Where is Race?” Spot asked again through gritted teeth, glaring daggers at Albert.

“He’s at The Refuge, that health center on Main.” Jack replied, clearly done with both of their shit.

“Jack—” Albert protested, but Jack interrupted.

“Whaddayou think he’s gonna do, idiot?”

Albert didn’t have an answer, save for a glare, and he sat back down, turning to the other boy—who had been watching this all with cautious amusement—and beginning a quietly muttered conversation, punctuated with heavy, angry looks towards Spot.

Spot turned all his attention to Jack, brow creased in confusion. “The Refuge is a mental hospital.”

“Wow, you’re a genius too.” Jack rolled his eyes. “No shit.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Kelly,” Spot growled. “Why’s he in a mental hospital? He got stabbed.”

“Think about why,” Jack answered flatly.

Spot thought back to the Brooklyn Bridge. “Yeah, fair enough, I guess.”

Jack rolled his eyes with a huff, also sitting back down, and turned to the other boys. Seemed they were done. With a huff of his own, Spot headed for a secluded corner of the cafeteria to eat lunch alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Despite the voice of reason in the back of Spot’s mind telling him to go home and do homework, that Race didn’t want to see him, that there were way better uses of his time, he drove straight from school to the The Refuge Behavioral Health Center on Main Street. He’d never been in a mental hospital before. He hadn’t expected it to be like an asylum from the movies, but that was the only image he had in his head until he stepped inside. What he found was something more along the lines of ‘hotel meets kindergarten classroom’.

“Can I help you?” asked a young woman at the front desk.

“Uh, yeah.” Spot awkwardly scratched at the back of his head. “My uh...friend is here?”

‘Friend’ was hardly an accurate word, but at this point he doubted the existence of one that described him and Race.

“What’s the name?” the woman asked.

“Anthony Higgins.”

She hummed lightly. “He has a lot of friends. That’s great. You can follow me.” She swiped her ID card to unlock a pair of heavy metal doors, then led Spot down a series of hallways to a little lounge.

She stepped over to a nearby desk, and Spot heard her say to another nurse, “This boy is here to see Anthony.”

Said other nurse nodded and headed down yet another hallway, and the first one headed back the way they’d come, while Spot remained uncomfortably in his place. Really, he had no idea what he was doing there. He just needed to see Race, convince himself that the damned fool was, in fact, alive, and then he could get on with his life.

About two minutes later, the second nurse came back around the corner, casting a smile towards Spot as she headed back to her desk. A second later, Race came around the corner, and stopped in his tracks (heh, Race, tracks, heheh), eyes wide and mouth dropped the littlest bit open. He was the very picture of surprise, and it made for a rather pretty picture.

For a second, Spot’s brain stopped working, and they stood, staring at each other from across the room like idiots. Then, Spot got it together, and he shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way over to Race.

By the time he reached him, Race’s mouth was closed, and he’d gotten most of the surprise and confusion off his face. “Spot, hi.”

“Hey,” Spot answered lamely. He gestured with one hand, then immediately put it back in his pocket. “How’s your side?”

Race looked down in the direction Spot had gestured, looking very much like he’d forgotten he had a side to begin with. “Oh. I mean, there’s more holes than there used to be...”

Another time, Spot might have laughed at that, but he was having a very hard time finding any humor in the scene before him. Race was an absolute mess. He was dressed in baggy, green scrubs, there were dark circles under his eyes, his hair looked damp and greasy and fell into his eyes when he looked down. It’s not like Race had looked well at all the last time Spot had seen him—he hadn’t—but he’d still had that fire inside of him that was so uniquely and particularly  _ Race _ . It was still there, when Spot really looked for it, but what was once a bonfire was now a candle.

Race looked up at him again, brushing the hair out of his eyes absently as he shrugged. “They said it’s healing well, but it’s probably gonna scar.”

Spot nodded. He didn’t know what to say, when all he could think was ‘I’m glad you’re alive’.

The boy in front of him shrugged again. “Oh well, what’s just one more?” He was talking so plainly—no snark, no dumb jokes, no thinly veiled insults, no clever little snipes. He hardly sounded like Race at all.

“Are you okay?” Spot asked before he could even think about the words coming out of his mouth.

Race blinked at him, looking surprised again. “Yeah...?”

“You just seem...”  _ Different, broken, wrong _ . “I don’t know.”

Race looked at him blankly, waiting for some sort of real answer. Or maybe his brain just went into screensaver mode.

“You seem...” Spot tried again, and again nothing seemed quite right to say. He sighed. “What are you even doing here, man?”

Race dropped his gaze, running his fingers awkwardly through his hair at the back of his head. “They gotta watch me till we get my meds sorted out.” The sentence sounded rehearsed, with no thought or feeling behind it, just the words he was supposed to say.

Spot didn’t know if he should push or not. He wasn’t particularly surprised to find out that Race was medicated. It wasn’t all that odd, but Race might just not want to talk about it with him, of all people. Spot could understand that. “Look, I just wanted to come make sure you’re still alive. You kinda almost bled out on me, so.”

Race glanced awkwardly over towards the nurse still nearby at the desk, then back to Spot. “Well, I’m definitely alive… D’you wanna—” he looked over to the nurse again and spoke louder. “Are we allowed to go to my room?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” the nurse replied.

Race let out a short breath and turned his attention back to Spot. “D’you wanna go...?”

Spot shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

Race turned, jerking his head briefly to indicate Spot should follow, and headed down the hallway, presumably towards his room. It was a short walk down a bland hallway to reach Race’s room, and he visibly relaxed as soon as they got inside, crossing the room to sit on one of the two beds.

“Beds don’t look very comfy,” Spot observed, leaning against the wall instead of sitting down.

Race let out an unamused huff. “‘Ey, at least I got blankets now.”

“You didn’t have blankets?”

He shook his head. “Suicide risk. No sheets, either.”

“Jeez.” Spot looked around the room. It was sterile enough, even with sheets on the bed.

“Yeah, ‘s rough. But, you know, all part of the healing process.” Race rolled his eyes heavily.

Spot chuckled. There was a little sass. Refreshing.

Race’s eyes darted to him when he laughed and stuck for a second before dropping again. “They said I can go once we figure out the medication, but they don’t know how long that’ll take...” he sounded small, and a bit scared.

Well, motherfucking  _ shit _ . Spot barely suppressed a groan as he moved to sit next to Race on the bed, exasperated by his own inability to remain cold and detached from the situation. He’d been cold and detached his whole life; why, oh why did he have to stop now?

Race looked a little surprised when he came over, but he didn’t say anything, just uncomfortably got a grip on his own arm with his other hand. “I uh, I really don’t like hospitals...”

“I can tell,” Spot said.

Race took a slow, shaky breath and seemed to shrink in on himself a bit. “I know it ain’t a  _ hospital _ hospital, and everyone’s trying to help and whatever, but still...I don’t know anyone here, and they won’t let me leave, and I can’t even wear my own clothes.” He grit his teeth, blinking hard.

Spot let out a low breath and resisted the urge to touch him. “That sucks, Race.”

Race tucked his legs onto the bed, pulling his knees to his chest and staring blindly in front of him. “Last time I was in the hospital, I couldn’t leave for almost two months...”

“Damn. What for?”

He swallowed thickly and took a shaky breath. “My dad an’ me got in a real bad car accident when I was five...”

Spot shifted to get more comfortable, settling in for a story, and Race took another breath before properly starting.

“We got hit by a semi. Or we hit a semi, I don’t really know. Either way, Dad was dead before the ambulance even got there.” Despite his clear efforts to hold them back, tears appeared in Race’s eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Spot’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, you mean...when you say ‘Dad’, you mean—”

Race nodded, shutting his eyes and wrapping his arms tighter around his knees. “My bio dad, yeah.”

Spot finally caved in and touched him—just a gentle hand on his shoulder, but a touch nonetheless. Race looked like he needed it.

The boy shuddered and almost imperceptibly shifted closer as he opened his eyes and started talking again. “I shoulda been dead, too. You saw the scars— _ everything _ was broken.”

“The scars...?” Spot mumbled, confused.

Race continued, not seeming to notice Spot had said anything. “For the first week, I couldn’t move. Not even a bit. An’ when the social worker came and got me, I still couldn’t walk. I was in that place  _ forever _ , and I didn’t have  _ anyone _ .” He took a breath and wiped the back of his wrist across his nose. “The nurses were nice, o’ course, but they weren’t— It’s not—” He gestured helplessly in front of himself, as if indicating an image to illustrate what he couldn’t find words for. “My mother,” he winced slightly at the word, “didn’t want me from the start—I was an accident, dad was only seventeen when they had me, an’ I’m pretty sure she was younger than ‘im. So there wasn’t  _ anyone _ —”

The tears that had been pooling in his eyes finally overflowed, and Race dropped his head to bury his face in his knees. Spot cringed. He didn’t do  _ feelings _ well, at least not with people he wasn’t really,  _ really _ close with. He didn’t even  _ know _ Race that well. Still, seeing the poor kid cry felt like a massive punch to the chest, on top of being wildly uncomfortable.

“Come on, man, don’t cry...” Spot groaned, awkwardly rubbing his back. “Hey, that was a long time ago, yeah?”

Race tried his best to stifle himself, and push the tears away, but he didn’t do a great job. He managed a thick, “‘M sorry,” around quiet sobs, pressing himself tighter into a little ball. For a leggy noodle boy, he could make himself very small.

Spot sighed. “You got parents that love you. You got friends.” Okay, he needed to stop that before the jealousy that was always barely concealed below the surface broke through at this very inopportune time. “Everything’s okay now, isn’t it?”

“I’m in a psych ward. How is that ‘okay’?”

“Well, you could be dead on the sidewalk outside a liquor store.”

A wet laugh escaped the miserable ball that sat next to Spot on the bed. “Dunno—that might’a been better.”

Spot frowned. “You don’t mean that.”

He didn’t get an answer aside from more tears.

“Damn it,” Spot huffed under his breath, sorely regretting every time he had told Race to die. “Man, I didn’t go through the trouble of saving your dumb ass twice for you to get like this on me.”

“Why are you even here?” asked the ball.

“I don’t know,” Spot answered honestly.

“You coulda just asked someone if I was alive or not, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

“Guess I wanted to see for myself.”

At this, Race uncurled the tiniest bit so he could look at Spot, up and sideways through his lashes. His eyes were startlingly blue against the red flush from his crying. “Whadda you care?”

“I don’t know,” Spot said again, and he didn’t. He really didn’t.

Race let out a quiet huff, clearly dissatisfied with this answer.

“What?” Spot snapped. “I’m here, ain’t I? I can leave if you want.”

Race was quiet for a minute, eyes blank and the tiniest bit narrowed as he stared into the middle distance. When he spoke again, he was very quiet, and sounded almost ashamed of the words. “Don’t leave.”

Spot relaxed. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath, waiting for the answer. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Thank you,” Race mumbled, not looking at Spot.

Spot just grunted, absentmindedly brushing his thumb over Race’s shoulder blade. Spot felt him very briefly tense under his touch, but he didn’t move or say anything.

Spot raised his hand to brush through Race’s hair instead. “When was the last time you showered?”

Race’s breath stuttered for the barest moment before he answered. “Dunno. A while ago.”

“Hm.” Spot continued brushing his curls into place. He didn’t see the big deal about touching. They’d had sex, after all.

After a minute or so of Race inching slowly closer, moving as if he was trying not to spook a nervous animal, he finally got close enough to oh so slightly lean into Spot’s side. Spot glanced over at him in confusion, but laid his arm over Race’s shoulders anyway.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he said. Race seemed like he needed to hear that.

“Yeah...probably...” Race replied quietly.

Spot let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. He looked around the room again, all gray and bland, not processing much besides the gentle weight of Race against him. “I can’t stay all night, you know. I got homework.”

“Who says I want you to, anyway?” Race quipped, leaning a little heavier into him.

_ Yeah, right _ . Spot smirked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“How’s the project?” Race asked, sounding a little guilty.

“S’fine,” Spot told him.

“If y’want you could bring notes and stuff and we could—”

“It’s fine. I got it,” Spot insisted, a little louder this time. He ran his fingers through Race’s hair again. “Don’t worry about the project.”

Race took in a breath like he was going to argue, but fell silent as Spot touched his hair again.

Spot grinned. “Has this been the secret to making you be quiet, all along?”

Race rolled his eyes. “Shut up, I’m tired.”

“Yeah, I should probably be hittin’ the road, anyway,” Spot said. “You need to rest, I’ve got homework...”

“Right...” Race agreed, but didn’t move to separate himself from Spot’s side.

To his own surprise, Spot didn’t move either, but rather continued to absently fidget with the curls at the nape of Race’s neck. As the quiet moment stretched on, Race leaned heavier and heavier into Spot’s side, and, as Spot listened to his breath slowing down and evening out, Spot realized he was asleep. He looked down at him the way one might look at a particularly stupid algebra problem. It’s not that he was bothered by Race falling asleep on him. Quite the opposite—he didn’t mind at all.

He let out a heavy sigh. It was time to come to terms with the truth, and he knew it; he didn’t hate Race anymore. He was starting to doubt that he ever did.

* * *

Monday was—shockingly—dreadfully boring. No matter what channel the chunky TV was turned to, it was always something bland and entirely uninteresting. Race ended up at the corner table with a few pieces of paper and some crayons, mindlessly drawing things and imagining what snarky running commentary would be coming from Jack, if he was there.

It had been nearly a week since Race was rushed into the ER, bleeding out and not-quite delirious. His side—still covered in bandages that were changed every morning by an irritatingly cheerful nurse who reminded Race so very much of a chicken as she clucked and scolded every time she asked how he’d slept and he said he hadn’t—still hurt. A lot. But there were other things to be distracted by, like how he’d been in the hospital and this very nice facility for nearly a week now, or how no one would ever trust him on his own again. Most of all, he was distracted by unwanted memories. Long nights alone in a hospital room—even if it was a very nice facility—brought on wave after wave of Race’s childhood. Most of them were about the crash, or the loneliness after, but the ones that hurt most were the nice ones. He remembered that his dad had started teaching him to dance—standing on his father’s shoes, as one does with little children—and would explain to Race that ‘chicks dig a guy who can dance’. He remembered the smell of the shampoo that he used to wash Race’s hair. He remembered little snippets and flashes of the stories his father used to tell him before bed. The majority of the memories were rather abstract, as one remembers one’s early childhood, but some of them were painfully specific and vivid. Race remembered crying when no one at the park wanted to play tag with him, and how his dad had comforted and teased him till he was laughing again. He remembered going to Baskin Robbins and his father melodramatically complaining when they didn’t have his favorite flavor available.

No matter how hard he tried to steer away, his mind kept drifting back to that cold, lonely hospital room, or sharply contrasting with the blinding heat and piercing noise of the crash. His dad had been singing, and he looked away from the road for just a second to make a face at Race in the rearview mirror, and then everything was gone. No matter how many times he reminded himself that things were different this time—no one had died, and all his friends and family came to see him—he was still scared.

At around four-thirty, an approaching nurse caused Race to snap back into awareness, and he looked up at her, blinking hard a few times to fully knock the memories out of his vision.

“There’s a friend here to see you,” the nurse explained, and Race nodded, standing up to follow her.

Most of his boys traveled in packs, so Race wasn’t sure who to expect—maybe Albert or Tommy Boy? He rounded the corner of the hallway and stopped in his tracks (heh, Race, tracks, heheh), mouth dropping slightly open in surprise as his expectations were dashed to pieces by Spot Conlon, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. For a second, he just stared, and Race was still processing that yes, this actual person Spot Conlon had come to visit. Spot moved first, shoving his hands into his pockets and crossing the room to Race.

“Spot, hi,” Race said, trying not to look a goldfish—all big round eyes and useless mouth.

“Hey,” Spot answered lamely. He gestured with one hand, then immediately put it back in his pocket. “How’s your side?”

Race looked down in the direction Spot had gestured, processing his words a touch slower than normal. “Oh. I mean, there’s more holes than there used to be…” He looked up at Spot again, brushing the hair out of his eyes absently as he shrugged. “They said it’s healing well, but it’s probably gonna scar.”

Spot just nodded, and Race—out of the need to fill the silence—shrugged again and said, “Oh well, what’s just one more?”

Very suddenly, almost as if he hadn’t meant to, Spot spoke. “Are you okay?”

Race blinked at him, surprised by his sympathetic question. What was he even doing here? Why did he care? As he had so plainly put it that Wednesday morning in AP Bio, they hated each other.

“You seem…” Spot paused and sighed. “What are you even doing here, man?”

Race dropped his gaze, running his fingers awkwardly through his hair at the back of his head. Despite having saved his life, Spot didn’t really know why he’d had to. He didn’t know about the many different ways Race was ‘broken’.

“They gotta watch me till we get my meds sorted out,” Race said flatly, reaching back for the words Dr. Bunson had said the previous day.

“Look, I just wanted to come make sure you’re still alive. You kinda almost bled out on me, so,” Spot said.

This would have been a very easy out—‘Yeah, I’m alive, all good here, see you at school,” and Spot would’ve left, but, oddly, Race wanted to talk to him more. He didn’t want to talk here, though. He glanced towards the nurse at the desk, wondering how many conversations she overheard, and how much she reported to the doctors. Race looked to Spot again. “Well, I’m definitely alive… D’you wanna—” It occurred to him that he might not be allowed private conversations, so he turned towards the nurse and spoke louder. “Are we allowed to go to my room?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” the nurse replied.

Race let out a short breath and turned his attention back to Spot. “D’you wanna go...?”

Spot shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

Race turned, jerking his head briefly to indicate Spot should follow, and headed down the hallway. It was a short walk to his room, and despite his deep loathing for the place, Race felt some of the tension fall out of his shoulders once they got inside. At least, in here, he could pretend that he wasn’t being constantly watched and worried about.

He crossed the room to sit on his bed, and his eyes followed Spot as he moved to lean against a nearby wall. What was it about guys leaning against a wall or a doorframe that was so weirdly hot?

“Beds don’t look very comfy,”

Race let out an unamused huff. “‘Ey, at least I got blankets now.”

“You didn’t have blankets?”

He shook his head. “Suicide risk. No sheets, either.”

“Jeez.” Spot looked around the room, clearly not impressed by what he saw.

“Yeah, ‘s rough. But, you know, all part of the healing process.” Race rolled his eyes heavily.

Spot chuckled, and there was a flare of sudden warmth in Race’s chest. He shot a glance towards Spot, and it stuck a little longer than he’d intended before he looked back down. Spot had a really nice laugh…and Race was oddly proud that he had been the cause of it.

“They said I can go once we figure out the medication,” Race offered, and uncertainty spread through him, making his voice smaller than he had intended, “but they don’t know how long that’ll take.”

He was surprised when Spot stepped away from the wall and came over to sit beside him on the bed. Race gripped his own arm with his other hand, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “I uh, I really don’t like hospitals…”

“I can tell,” Spot said.

Race took a slow, shaky breath and shrunk in on himself a bit. “I know it ain’t a  _ hospital _ hospital, and everyone’s trying to help and whatever, but still...I don’t know anyone here, and they won’t let me leave, and I can’t even wear my own clothes.” He gritted his teeth, blinking hard as unpleasant flashes of that other hospital stay beat against the edges of his awareness.

Spot let out a slow breath. “That sucks, Race.”

Race tucked his legs onto the bed, pulling his knees to his chest and staring blindly in front of him. “Last time I was in the hospital, I couldn’t leave for almost two months...” Race felt exposed, and afraid, just as he always did whenever he talked about the events of those many years ago.

“Damn. What for?”

He swallowed thickly and took a shaky breath. He could make something up, and Spot would never know. “My dad an’ me got in a real bad car accident when I was five...”

Spot shifted a little, and Race had a very brief clash of opposing feelings that leveled out to a desire to tell Spot why he was the way he was.

“We got hit by a semi. Or we hit a semi, I don’t really know. Either way, Dad was dead before the ambulance even got there.” Despite his clear efforts to hold them back, tears appeared in Race’s eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Spot’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, you mean...when you say ‘Dad’, you mean—”

Race nodded, shutting his eyes and wrapping his arms tighter around his knees in a fruitless attempt to shield himself from his own words. “My bio dad, yeah.”

Race felt a sudden touch on his shoulder, the gentle weight of a carefully placed hand, and it felt like a small spot of sunlight had hit him, radiating warmth. He shuddered, shifting the tiniest bit closer without really even thinking about what he was doing, mind stretched too thin between the story, and the sharp awareness that Spot was touching him.

He opened his eyes and started talking again. “I shoulda been dead, too. You saw the scars— _ everything _ was broken. For the first week, I couldn’t move. Not even a bit. An’ when the social worker came and got me, I still couldn’t walk. I was in that place  _ forever _ , and I didn’t have  _ anyone _ .” He took a breath and wiped the back of his wrist across his nose. “The nurses were nice, o’ course, but they weren’t— It’s not—” He gestured helplessly in front of himself, as if indicating an image to illustrate what he couldn’t find words for. “My mother,” he winced slightly at the word, but had nothing else to call the woman, “didn’t want me from the start—I was an accident, dad was only seventeen when they had me, an’ I’m pretty sure she was younger than ‘im. So there wasn’t  _ anyone _ —”

The tears that had been pooling in his eyes finally overflowed, and Race dropped his head to bury his face in his knees. No matter how many years had passed, how many times he’d talked through it, or how much he insisted that he was okay and didn’t mind, Race had never once managed to get through that story without being ripped open and gutted. Whether he cried, or just shut down, he was always left weak and wrung empty.

“Come on, man, don’t cry...” Spot groaned, and began to hesitantly, almost begrudgingly rub circles across Race’s back. “Hey, that was a long time ago, yeah?”

Race tried his best to stifle himself and push the tears away, not wanting to be so vulnerable in front of Spot, but it was a little late for that. As he always did when he fell apart, Race felt guilty and embarrassed. He managed a thick, “‘M sorry,” around quiet sobs, pressing himself tighter into a little ball.

Spot sighed. “You got parents that love you. You got friends. Everything’s okay now, isn’t it?”

Race felt about the farthest from okay he’d been in years. “I’m in a psych ward. How is that ‘okay’?”

“Well, you could be dead on the sidewalk outside a liquor store.”

A wet laugh pushed out of Race as he remained curled tightly in on himself. “Dunno—that might’a been better.”

The thought settled coldly on his shoulders. Would it be better if he had died?

“You don’t mean that,” Spot said, but Race wasn’t really listening. He certainly wouldn’t have to deal with all this if he had died, he wouldn’t have to feel the way he felt. More tears fell as he sat silently, thinking about what would happen if he died. Who would care? How long would it hurt them? Race couldn’t bear the thought of doing such damage to the people he loved, but maybe that would go away after… No one really knows what happens when you die…

“Damn it,” Spot huffed under his breath before continuing at a more regular tone. “Man, I didn’t go through the trouble of saving your dumb ass twice for you to get like this on me.”

“Why are you even here?”

“I don’t know,” Spot answered.

Race frowned inside his little ball of misery. That didn’t make any sense. “You coulda just asked someone if I was alive or not, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

“Guess I wanted to see for myself.”

At this, Race uncurled the tiniest bit so he could look at Spot, up and sideways through his lashes. “Whadda you care?”

“I don’t know,” Spot said again, and Race let out a quiet huff, dissatisfied with this answer. It wasn’t really an answer at all. Spot had spent years tormenting him, and just when things were getting really good, he showed up again to ruin everything. Except, he hadn’t really ruined everything…

“What?” Spot snapped. “I’m here, ain’t I? I can leave if you want.”

Race didn’t answer for a moment. Did he want Spot to leave? Of course the gut reaction was ‘no’, he didn’t want to be alone again. But there was something about  _ Spot _ being there…Race was very confused. Things had gotten crazy in every way since the two of them hooked up on Spot’s aunt’s couch. Nothing between them had really changed; Race was still his annoying, antagonistic self, and Spot was still the world’s biggest douchenozzle...except…he wasn’t? It wasn’t much, but things weren’t hostile anymore. They’d shared a few jokes, and Spot had actually agreed to hang out with Race of his own volition—and thank God he had. For whatever reason, Spot had gone looking for Race that day in Brooklyn, and he’d actually sat with him and gently comforted him after forcibly dragging him backwards off the railing. He was sitting here, now, in this shitty not-a-hospital room, with his hand resting gently on Race’s back.

“Don’t leave.” Race spoke quietly, fearing rejection or mockery.

“Okay, I won’t.”

Race’s heart gave a small leap, which threw a whole new pile of confusion at him. “Thank you,” he mumbled, avoiding Spot’s gaze as a tiny blush colored his cheeks.

Spot grunted, absentmindedly brushing his thumb over Race’s shoulder blade, and Race very briefly tensed under his touch, careful not to move or say anything. It felt like Spot was trailing a line of warmth through each point of contact, and Race blushed harder, burying his face deeper into his folded arms so Spot couldn’t see. After a moment, Race felt fingers brushing through his hair, and his breath stuttered for the barest moment. Spot was touching him,  _ on purpose _ , and it wasn’t to cause pain.

“When was the last time you showered?” Spot asked.

“Dunno. A while ago.” Race was much too distracted by how nice Spot’s fingers felt, pushing gently through his hair.

Spot hummed in quiet response, continuing to brush Race’s curls into place, then out of place, and then back again. Race couldn’t help but inch closer to Spot. He felt warm, and safe, and solid—which is a pretty weird vibe to get from a guy who’d physically hit you a good number of times. Warily, Race leaned into Spot’s side, tucking himself carefully under his arm, and after a second of hesitation, Spot laid his arm over Race’s shoulders.

“You’re gonna be alright,” Spot said gently—his voice was really very nice and soothing when he wasn’t yelling hate and obscenities.

“Yeah…probably…” Race replied quietly, trying not to drift back into that awful, ringing headspace.

Spot let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh, and spoke again after a moment of quiet. “I can’t stay all night, you know. I got homework.”

A small bit of disappointment flashed through Race, and he quipped back, “Who says I want you to, anyway?” Regardless of his words, he leaned a little heavier into Spot’s side.

“I didn’t say anything,” Spot replied, sounding a bit smug.

Race cast about for some other topic in an effort to distract himself, not only from his near-meltdown, but also from how good Spot smelled and how comfortably Race fit under his arm despite being about six inches taller than him, and how pleasant the sensation of being oh so slightly rocked by his breathing was, and—

“How’s the project?” Race asked, latching onto the first thing that came to mind.

“S’fine,” Spot told him.

“If y’want you could bring notes and stuff and we could—“

“It’s fine. I got it,” Spot insisted, a little louder this time. He ran his fingers through Race’s hair again. “Don’t worry about the project.”

Race inhaled, ready to argue, but fell silent as Spot touched his hair again, and the gentle niceness of this gesture nearly knocked his breath out of him.

Spot spoke again, and Race could practically hear the grin in his voice. “Has this been the secret to making you be quiet, all along?”

Race rolled his eyes. “Shut up, I’m tired.” It wasn’t technically a lie…

“Yeah, I should probably be hittin’ the road, anyway,” Spot said. “You need to rest, I’ve got homework...”

“Right...” Race agreed, but didn’t move to separate himself from Spot’s side. Surprisingly, Spot didn’t move, either, but rather continued to absently fidget with the curls at the nape of Race’s neck. As the quiet moment stretched on, Race found himself leaning heavier and heavier into Spot’s side, and it seemed like the world had shrunk. Him and Spot and a very hard mattress, and there wasn’t anything else. For the first time in seventy-two hours, Race slowly dipped through that gauzy haze of grayed out, half awareness, and into sleep.


	28. Lonely at the Top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duane High School prepares for homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dumb teenage boys talking about transgender people. Forgive them.

* * *

“You know,” Hot Shot began, voice already dripping with sarcasm, “I’m glad they put homecoming banners on every wall. Like, if there was only one on the wall behind me, I might have forgotten for five seconds that homecoming is this weekend, y’know?”

Vince looked up from his styrofoam plate of chicken nuggets, false surprise on his face. “Wait, homecoming is this weekend!?”

Spot snorted and rolled his eyes.

“I think the whole thing is stupid,” Myron interjected, “‘specially the whole ‘homecoming king and queen’ bit.”

Hot Shot scoffed. “You’re just mad because your girlfriend is up for homecoming queen, and you’re a jealous bastard who doesn’t want to share her.”

“ _ No _ ,” Myron argued, “I’m mad because my girlfriend is up for homecoming queen, so I have to go.”

Vince looked at him incredulously. “You don’t want to go? Dude, it’s senior homecoming.”

“It’s a stupid dance,” Myron groaned. “I’m just hoping I get laid after.”

Hot Shot snorted. “Better hope your girl gets queen or she’ll just be bitchy all night.”

Myron groaned again, louder.

“I still haven’t found a date, yet,” Vince huffed with a frown.

“Take Spot,” Hot Shot suggested. “I bet, if you ask nicely, he’ll even suck your dick.”

Spot choked on a chicken nugget, and Hot Shot gestured to him. “Yeah, like that!”

The other two boys burst into laughter, and Spot raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you’ve clearly never sucked a dick before. You see, Hot Shot,” Spot tossed an arm over his friend’s shoulder for maximum discomfort, “if you relax your throat, with a little practice, you can take it like a pro.”

This only caused the other two to laugh harder as Hot Shot pulled a face of mild disgust and shoved Spot’s arm away. “Nah, I’ll leave that shit to you.”

“Speaking of...” Myron leaned across the table towards Spot. “Who is the great, mysterious Spot Conlon taking to senior homecoming?”

“Oh gee, Myron, I’m touched,” Spot teased. “It just so happens I’m taking nobody to senior homecoming.”

Hot Shot scoffed. “Oh come on, you can’t just skip it.”

Spot made a face. “Who said I’m skippin’? I ain’t afraid of showing up to a party alone.”

“Is no one good enough for the attention of the great and mysterious Spot Conlon?” Vince teased.

Myron joined him. “How sad that he’s stuck with all us plebs, with no one to share his high and lofty station.”

“It’s lonely at the top,” Spot lamented.

“The  _ top? _ ” Hot Shot jeered. “You’re, like, four feet tall.”

“Shut the fuck up, Hot Shot. I could flatten you.”

“Smol but swol,” Vince chuckled, nodding sagely.

“What about your twinky slut?” Myron suggested. “Why don’t’cha take him?”

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Spot asked seriously. “He got knocked up by Jack Kelly’s gang leader ex-dad and taken hostage by their rivals for ransom.”

Hot Shot and Myron sputtered into laughter, and Vince replied with enthusiasm, “Well then, you can stage a daring rescue! He’d have to be on call for blowjobs, as repayment for saving his life.”

“Like a life debt, but with dick,” Myron agreed, nodding.

Spot snorted. “Is this what you all think being gay is? Just a constant string of blowjobs, and then you die?”

“Hey, wait, you would know.” Vince leaned in. “Higgins—is he actually...?”

Hot Shot frowned. “What—trans?”

“Well, I’m not sure why it matters to you, but no,” Spot said.

“Hmm, so pregnancy is less likely.” Myron nodded.

Vince frowned. “Well, where the fuck is he, then?”

Spot just shrugged. It didn’t seem like his place to say. “Why should I know?” he deflected lamely.

Myron, ignoring Spot’s answer, scoffed at Vince, amused. “Wait, did you  _ actually _ believe the whole gang pregnancy thing?”

“Not the gang part,” Vince said, “but the pregnancy didn’t sound too far-fetched. He’s pretty girly.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘girly’,” Hot Shot started, but Myron interrupted.

“He’s a himbo.”

Spot chuckled. Couldn’t argue with that.

Vince frowned at Myron, looking mildly confused, and Myron rolled his eyes.

“Y’know, like a bimbo, but a guy?”

“A pretty, dumb slut,” Hot Shot agreed, nodding.

“He’s pretty smart, actually,” Spot said, thinking aloud more than anything.

Vince looked at Spot and scoffed. “I doubt it.”

Myron nodded in agreement. “Last year, he spent a month bringing in Jello for lunch, except he didn’t use the flavored packets; he got the plain gelatin and mixed it with, like, different soups, or ramen, or milk.”

Hot Shot wrinkled his face in distaste. “I remember that. Teachers kept talking to him about it, but he didn’t actually get in trouble, ‘cause he wasn’t technically doing anything wrong. He’d just go off about how savory gelatin was a huge thing in the sixties, and he was doing a historical experiment or some shit like that.”

“Well, that’s  _ disgusting _ ,” Spot said, “but not exactly dumb.”

Myron smirked. “Nah, the dumb part was when he left some in his locker and it melted.”

“I mean, okay, yeah, he’s got the street smarts of a fetus,” Spot conceded. “We’ve been working on this project for AP Bio though, and I’m telling you guys, he’s wicked smart.”

“Oh my god,” Hot Shot said, looking at Spot with wide eyes. “You’re into him.”

Spot made a face. “I am  _ not _ .”

“Yes, you fucking are!”

“I’m not!” Spot insisted. “He’s smart! It’s a fucking fact!”

“I’m sure you’d know all about fucking facts,” Vince said with a sage nod, and Myron laughed.

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

Hot Shot waved his hand dismissively at the other two, still intent on Spot. “What changed, I thought you hated him?”

“I don’t  _ hate _ him...” Spot grumbled.

Hot Shot gasped. “I was right—he totally sucked your soul out through your dick, and now you’re under his evil spell.”

“He sucked something out through my dick, and it wasn’t my soul,” Spot shot back. “Are you done?”

Hot Shot held his hands up in surrender, still snickering. “Fine, have it your way, you’re not into him.”

“I woulda thought you had better taste, Spot,” Myron clucked, shaking his head as if disappointed.

Spot turned on Myron so fast, Vince jolted a little. “What’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

“Were we not  _ just _ discussing him being an idiot? Jesus, calm down.

“Well now be fair,” Vince chimed in. “He’s a  _ pretty _ idiot, so that’s gotta count for something.”

“ _ I  _ said he’s  _ not _ an idiot, pretty or otherwise,” Spot snarled. There are some things you just shouldn’t do in this life. You shouldn’t drive a car or operate large machinery while drunk, for example. You shouldn’t start fights with random strangers outside liquor stores. You shouldn’t make fun of Spot Conlon.

Myron held his hands up much in the way one does when faced with an angry dog—warding, calming, showing you’re not a threat. “Dude, come on, we’re just fucking around.”

“By all means,” Spot growled through gritted teeth, “please continue.”

“Nah, I’m done, chill.”

Spot looked to Hot Shot, who was really struggling to wipe the smug look of his face, and huffed. It had already been a long week, and it was Tuesday.

* * *

“Shit, it  _ is  _ already homecoming. I’ve totally lost track,” Race said with a tone of awe in his voice.

Albert rolled his eyes. “Oh shut up you’re not in the bastille.”

“Yeah, this is a very nice facility,” Jack chimed in, nodding sagely, and Race smacked his arm.

“It’s not my fault time isn’t real.”

“Not gonna lie,” Jack said, “I’m kinda pissed at you for getting your ass stuck in here instead of going to homecoming with me.” He gestured sharply towards Albert beside him with his thumb. “This asshole ditched me for some sophomore.”

Race snickered. “Of course he did.”

Albert rolled his eyes. “Whadda you want from me? She’s prettier than Jack.”

Jack and Race both gasped in mock outrage.

“His royal homecoming highness is just being whiny, anyway.” Albert waved towards Jack.

“I am not!” Jack whined.

“Who are you gonna take, since ya can’t take me?” Race asked, absently tugging at a frayed bit of the weird, plasticy fabric on the couch cushion.

“No one. It’s in three days.”

Race scoffed. “You tellin’ me the great Jack Kelly can’t find a date in three days?”

“We wouldn’t have time to coordinate outfits, we’d look ridiculous,” Jack explained.

Race laughed. “So instead you’re gonna go by yourself and pout all night?”

“I keep telling him to grab a freshman,” Albert said. “They’re a dime a dozen.”

“And jail is free,” said Jack.

Race wrinkled up his mouth in distaste. “Not all of us have such base standards, Albert.“

Albert scoffed. “You’re one to talk about standards.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Race frowned as his two friends exchanged a look and a barely hidden chuckle.

“Nothin’, nothin’,” Jack assured him. “Al’s just bein’ a dick, as always.”

Race narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Don’t sound like nothin’.”

“I’m just saying, Race, your standards are, uh...pretty  _ low _ ,” Albert snickered.

Jack snorted and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Race gasped as if insulted, but it quickly became a laugh. “You’re an asshole.”

Albert shrugged, grinning.

Race went back to picking at the couch, avoiding looking at either of them. “Did I, uh...did I tell you guys he came to visit me the other day?” he asked, knowing he didn’t.

Jack and Albert both sat bolt upright, looking at each other.

“Shit.” Jack winced. “He asked us where you were, and I told him. I didn’t think—”

“Wh— Nah, it was fine. He was actually really nice.” Race paused. “I sorta told him ‘bout the crash...” He felt oddly guilty, as if he had spilled one of their secrets instead of his own.

Albert shook his head. “Man, I don’t get this guy at all.”

“How’d he take it?” Jack asked.

Race shrugged. “He just sorta sat and listened.”

“Huh.” Albert frowned. “That’s...”

“Interesting,” Jack finished for him, when he didn’t.

“I’m almost starting to think he isn’t actually entirely evil,” Race said.

“The real question is,” Jack shifted sideways in his chair so he was facing Race, “when you get outta here, are you gonna screw him, again?”

Race sputtered into laughter. “Bitch, I can’t see the future!”

“Do you  _ want _ to screw him, again?” Jack clarified. “Because he definitely wants to screw you. Clearly.”

Race looked down quickly in an effort to hide the slight flush that had colored his cheeks, and now it was Albert’s turn to laugh.

“Oh shit, you do!”

“Oh come on, why is that some big revelation? We all know I’m a slut!” Race protested.

“Well, you never did talk about it,” Jack pointed out. “For all we know, his dick’s as tiny as he is and he don’t know how to use it.”

Race erupted into laughter. “First off, he’s five foot something, so a Spot sized dick would be fucking terrifying.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I meant proportionately.”

“I know, but I like mine better.” Race giggled. “Though I can assure you his dick is not terrifying, and he  _ definitely _ knows how to use it.”

Albert groaned, and Jack shushed him.

“I dunno, guys,” Race huffed. “It’s weird.”

Albert frowned. “His dick?”

Race burst into laughter again. “No! Him being nice and shit—it’s weird.”

“I’m telling you!” Jack insisted. “He wants to screw you again!”

“Well, he wasn’t nice the first time!”

“You all know you’re not alone in this lounge, right?” Mush snapped from a couple yards away.

Jack scoffed. “You homophobic or something?”

Mush rolled his eyes heavily and turned his attention back to the book he had been reading, and Race waved dismissively.

“Don’t mind him, he’s always mad about something.” He paused with a frown, thrown off by his own words. They sounded a bit too much like he was settling in, like all this was becoming normal, and Race didn’t like that one bit.

“Any idea when you’ll get out, yet?” Albert asked, right on cue.

Race sighed. “I dunno. I still ‘haven’t fully stabilized’,” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “‘n Doctor Bunsen says we gotta wait and see how I react with the new dosage.”

“Hm,” Albert grunted. “Sucks.”

“Damn right it does,” Race grumbled. “I just wanna go home, ‘n be normal again.”

Jack reached over and ruffled his hair. “You were never normal.”

Race tried to smile in response. He knew Jack didn’t mean it unkindly, but the words bit like hail in a high wind. Jack was right; he wasn’t normal, and never had been, even though that was all he ever wanted.


	29. Feeling Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race makes an extremely poor decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warning for self harm in this chapter. Oops.

“Hey, y’mind if I watch too?”

Race looked around, mildly startled to see Mush standing by the edge of the couch. Race sat up a bit straighter, so as to not take up the whole thing, and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Some uninteresting NASCAR race was playing on the TV, which Race had latched onto because there’s only one race, the human race (and also himself, Anthony “Racetrack” Higgins).

“Cool.” Mush sat down and pulled his knees up to his chest, staring blankly at the TV.

Race found himself very distracted by his new companion, curled up as if he were warding off the rest of the world, much like Race so frequently did. “You alright...?” Race asked hesitantly, mildly concerned with the empty look on Mush’s face.

“Hm?” Mush glanced over at him, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, m’fine.”

It would’ve been easy to accept his answer and go back to peacefully watching NASCAR, but as is well known, Race was nothing if not a nosy bastard. “So why’re you here?”

Mush shrugged. “Tried to die.”

“Why?”

It was an intrusive, careless question, but Race was curious.

Mush quirked an eyebrow. “Because...I’m...depressed? It’s not that deep. I don’t have some kinda sob story like Sniper.”

“Eyy, broken brain club.” Race held his hand out for a high five.

Mush let out a single, breathy chuckle and clapped his hand against Race’s.

“Look at us, matching outfits and everything.” Race turned his gaze back to the TV.

“Suicide Squad,” Mush deadpanned, doing the same.

“Wasn’t that a movie?”

“Yeah, some DC bullshit.”

“Mm, we’re probably more interesting.”

“Eehhh, I’m not that interesting.” Mush ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. “I’m just an emo little shit. Got the eyeliner and everything, back home.”

Race snorted, mildly amused, and there was a short bit of quiet before he spoke again. “D’you want to go home?”

“Yeah,” Mush sighed. “Yeah, I’d like to go home.”

Race nodded. “Me, too...”

Mush scratched absentmindedly at the scars on his forearm. “Most people do. It ain’t exactly paradise in here— Shit.” He cursed through his teeth when a scab came loose beneath his fingernail, and blood began to well up in its place.

Race watched the little line of red with mild curiosity. “Why d’you do that?”

Mush side-eyed him. “I scratch because it itches… You mean ‘why do I cut’?”

Race nodded. “Yeh,”

“It helps. Calms me down, makes me feel...” Mush paused, staring into space as he searched for the right words. “Real, I guess. Like, at least I can feel something. And I guess I think I deserve it. Got this little voice in my head—not like a hallucination or anything, just thoughts that won’t go away—telling me to do it.”

Race hummed in quiet acknowledgment. “My little voice tells me to go dumpster diving and pick fights outside of liquor shops.”

“Your little voice sounds more fun than mine.”

Race huffed. “Oh yeah, great fun until I got stabbed and locked up in here.”

Mush chuckled quietly, and the two lapsed into silence, staring at the boxy TV just because it was better than staring at a wall. Race’s mind drifted quickly away from the fast moving cars, and back to Mush’s words. ‘Feeling real’.

* * *

After dinner, which consisted of watery noodle soup from a powdered mix and weird, gelatinous lemon pudding, Race grabbed a pair of clean scrubs from the shelves across from his bed and slipped into the bathroom for a shower, closing the curtain behind him. He set the clean scrubs on the counter and reached for his waistband, where he had managed to stash a plastic spoon at dinner. He gripped it in both hands and pressed up with his thumbs. It snapped easily with a satisfying  _ crack _ . A broken plastic spoon was hardly a deadly weapon, but Race didn’t need it to be. He needed it to scratch. With enough pressure, it could cut.

He wasn’t particularly overcome with a desire to hurt himself—rather, curiosity and hope had taken over. Mush said it made him feel calm and real. Race wanted calm and real. It was worth a shot.

* * *

In hindsight, maybe not so worth it. The nurses always made rounds before bedtime, giving everyone their little paper cups with pills and checking to make sure everything was as it should be. Race’s experiment had—obviously—left things not as they should be.

Mush had said ‘calm’ and ‘real’. Well, Race had certainly felt real, but not in a very pleasant way. Seated in one of those weird little office/exam rooms, Race rubbed unhappily at the bandage on his arm, only half listening to the nurses talking to him.

“How did you do this, Anthony?” one of them—Elise? He thought her name was Elise—asked.

“Broke a spoon,” he muttered, seeing no point in lying.

“You did this with a broken spoon?”

A noncommittal grunt. He felt like an idiot. This meant he would have to stay longer, and for what? A stinging arm and fear of what his parents would say when they found out.

“Okay,” Elise said calmly. “Where is it, now?”

“Threw it away.”

“Where?”

“In the bathroom.” Another poor choice, on his part.

Elise glanced up at another nurse, who immediately left the room, presumably to remove the weapon from the premises. She then smiled wanly at Race. “Wanna tell me why you did it?”

He huffed, slumping back in the uncomfortable chair he had been so gently guided to minutes earlier. “I dunno.”

Surprisingly, Elise’s response was just a calm, “That’s okay. Do you want us to tell your parents so you don’t have to?”

Race’s eyes darted quickly to hers, fearfully. “No. No, don’t.”

“Okay,” she said again. “It’s just an offer. It’s going to be hard to hide, if they visit.”

_ More like impossible _ .

“Yeah, I shoulda thought of that earlier,” Race grumbled, glaring at the bandaged result of his curiosity. “How much time is this gonna add to my sentence?”

“That’s up to Dr. Bunsen.”

He sighed. “Can I talk to him about it?” Maybe if he explained it was just curiosity and not any sort of compulsion, he wouldn’t have to stay longer.

“Of course. He’ll be here in the morning,” Elise told him. “Do you want to talk about it, now?”

“Y’mean with you?”

“Me or any of the other nurses,” she offered.

Race sighed again. “I just wanna go home.”

“I know.” A sympathetic smile appeared on Elise’s face. “Right now, if you don’t feel like talking, which is totally fine, why don’t you go get some rest?”

He grunted and stood up. “Thanks.”

Race exited the room swiftly and made his way back down the dark hallway to his room, where Sniper was still awake, sitting up.

“Oh, hi.” Race paused in the doorway, not expecting him to be up.

“Hey.” Sniper gestured to his bandaged arm. “You shouldn’ta done that, you know. It’s a lot harder to stop than it is to start.”

Race glanced down at the bandage on his arm with a frown. “I was just curious— Wait, hang on.” He turned his frown to Sniper, confused. “Whadda you mean?”

“Cutting,” Sniper said. “It’s addictive.”

“Do you cut?” Race asked plainly. He had seen no scars on Sniper.

Sniper nodded. “On my legs. S’easier to hide.”

“Ah.”  _ Duh _ . Race crossed the room to his own bed, sitting down heavily. “‘M sorry, man.”

Sniper shrugged. “Is what it is.”

There was a minute of heavy silence before Sniper spoke again, staring at his bedsheets as if he could see through them. “PTSD.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what I’ve got,” Sniper said. “It’s PTSD.”

“Hey, me too,” Race said quietly.

“Huh.” Another pause. “You wanna talk about it?”

Race shrugged. “If you want,”

“Hey, that’s up to you. You know what caused mine.” Sniper laid down and stared at the ceiling.

Another shrug. “You’re the one that brought it up, man.” Race lay down as well, crossing his arms behind his head and only slightly wincing at the pressure on his cut arm.

“Alright, I know stalling when I hear it.” Sniper shifted and sighed sleepily. “G’night, Race.”

Race huffed quietly, shooting a glance and a small smile across the room to the other boy. “Night, Sniper...”


	30. There’s Nothing Left but You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot goes to homecoming, and homecoming goes to Race.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured at the end of this chapter (and in the chapter title) is “Ashes of Eden” by Breaking Benjamin.

Spot hoped, living with Aunt Beth, he could escape the ridiculous fuss over him going to homecoming. His junior year, his mother spent hours photographing him and his ‘date’—a closeted lesbian named Anna whose girlfriend went with Ethan—in various uncomfortable poses at the park before sending them off to dinner. Spot was looking forward to avoiding that pomp and circumstance. Unfortunately, when he came downstairs dressed in the tuxedo his parents bought him for a cousin’s wedding when he was fourteen—it had been too big on him, then. It actually fit quite nicely, now—he found Aunt Beth in the living room with a camera.

He groaned. “Do we have to? I don’t even have a date. Can’t I just...” He gestured in a sweeping motion towards the door.

“I won’t make it some big ordeal, but you’ve got to let me get at least a few pictures,” Aunt Beth replied, smiling.

Spot sighed and made his way over. “My mom put you up to this?”

“She did ask, yes, but either way, you’ll be happy to have these to look back on when you’re older.”

“Sure I will,” Spot grumbled, dragging his fingers back through his hair. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

“Let’s go outside so we have something nice as a background,” she suggested, already headed towards the door, and Spot followed, determined to just get this over with.

After about five minutes of Beth talking with him about nothing in particular, or trying to make him laugh because ‘candid shots are always better’, she finally relented. “Alright, Sean, have a good time, don’t do anything stupid, the usual deal.” She smiled. “I’m sure someone has some afterparty planned. Try to get home before three?”

“Yeah, sure thing, Beth.” Spot smiled back and headed for the car.

* * *

The rented hotel ballroom was dark and loud, and within thirty seconds of entering, Spot found himself wishing he had managed to sneak in some alcohol. Judging by the size of the crowd, the student body had somehow doubled in size, and Spot had a hard time properly recognizing anyone around him. Finally, he spotted Vince making his way in, and he headed over. Vince yelled some sort of greeting that was mostly lost in the noise and clapped Spot on the shoulder.

“Hey, man,” Spot yelled back, then started scanning for Hot Shot and Myron. He assumed they’d be more interested in their dates, but he should at least say hello.

There was a long table with snacks and drinks over by one wall, and Spot caught a glimpse of Hot Shot near the back of the line, talking with some girl Spot had never seen before. Spot nudged Vince and gestured towards Hot Shot. Vince nodded, and they walked over.

“Oh hey, guys!” Hot Shot greeted them. “Havin’ fun yet?”

“Just got here,” Vince said. “You?”

“Yeah, we’re having fun.” Hot Shot replied with a lazy smile, slinging his arm around his girl’s waist. “Y’didn’t pick anyone up last minute, Vince?”

Vince rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“You seen Myron?” Spot asked Hot Shot.

“He’s somewhere out on the floor with Meghan.” Hot Shot gestured vaguely towards the crowded dance floor. “You two should get out there, see what other roaming lonely hearts you can find,” he snickered.

“Lonely hearts my ass,” Spot scoffed, cuffing Hot Shot on the arm.

“He just wants us to leave him alone with his lady.” Vince winked at the girl. “Ey, seeya later, Hot Shot.”

Hot Shot retorted with something like ‘getoutta here’ as Vince and Spot turned to brave the sea of high schoolers before them. Vince spotted a group of girls over to one side and made a beeline. Spot, for lack of a better option, followed. He obviously was not interested in any of the aforementioned girls, but he wasn’t interested in any of the guys present, either. Unbidden, his mind wandered to Race. He wondered how he was spending his night, in the behavior health center instead of out here in the real loony bin.

It seemed that Vince knew two of the girls in the group. Even if Spot couldn’t clearly make out his words through the cacophony of teen angst, he could tell just by his tone and face that Vince was lost to any world outside of hitting on as many of them as he could. Most of the girls seemed more amused than interested, and one of them drifted over towards Spot where he stood, just outside the circle.

“Hey,” she greeted him, speaking loudly to be heard over the music.

“Hey,” Spot shouted back. “I’m Sean.”

“I’m Jen.” She smiled at him before gesturing towards Vince. “Looks like your pal’s ditching you.”

Spot shrugged.

“You’re the new kid, right? You transferred this semester?”

“Uh, yeah.” Spot nodded, unsure if his answer could really be heard over the wailing of what might have been Shakira or might have been a goat. “I moved from Philadelphia.”

“Cool!” she said, with the look of someone who has no idea what was just said to them.

Spot pressed his lips together and nodded, not quite making eye contact.

“So are you just here with your friend, or...?” She gestured towards Vince, still tirelessly hitting on those poor girls.

Spot cringed, partially at Vince, and partially at the girl who was almost undoubtedly about to start flirting with him. “No, actually, I...” He smiled sympathetically and gestured over his shoulder. “I have to go find someone. Feel free to punch Vince.” He beat a hasty retreat back into the crowd in search of Myron. Being the short brick wall of a person that we was, it wasn’t hard to push his way through the crowd, but it was a little hard to see where he was going. Eventually, he found Myron looking bored out of his mind as his girlfriend, Meghan, stood talking with another small crowd of girls, keeping him captive with her fingers laced through his.

Spot snickered as he approached. “Meghan,” he smiled politely, “you look lovely.”

She diverted her attention briefly from the conversation to smile at him. “Oh hey, Sean! You look great, too!”

Myron, standing just outside of Meghan’s line of sight mouthed ‘save me’.

Spot smirked at him, then looked back to Meghan. “Hey, mind if I borrow your man for a bit? I promise I’ll return him.” He winked.

She laughed and waved the two of them away, and Myron shot Spot a grateful look, moving to follow him. They made to the back of the snack line.

“So, if you’re the boyfriend of the homecoming queen, what does that make you?” Spot teased. “Homecoming prince? Is she cheating on you with Jack Kelly?”

Myron rolled his eyes and shoved Spot’s shoulder. “Shut up, it makes me  _ bored _ .”

“‘Least she  _ is _ the queen. You know what that means.” Spot wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Do we need to run to the store and pick you up some blue pills?”

Myron shoved him again, laughing now. “Fuck off, man.”

They each piled a tiny paper plate full of shitty brownies and filled a plastic cup with unfortunately non-alcoholic punch and retreated to a dark corner.

“I just don’t get why people like these things,” Myron grumbled, gesturing aimlessly towards the crowd.

“Shoulda pre-gamed. That’s what Ethan and I did, last year.” Spot shoved an entire brownie in his mouth.

Myron rolled his eyes. “I didn’t get the chance to. Meghan wanted to do pictures at the park before we came.”

“Ah, fuck.” Spot’s voice was muffled with brownie before he swallowed. “Not park pictures.”

“Right?” Myron complained. “What is it with girls and pictures? Dressing up in a dumb tux and spending the night listening to kids scream over shitty music is bad enough, we don’t need to document the damn thing.”

“Tell me about it,” Spot grumbled. “I have park pictures with a girl who wasn’t even my real date.”

Myron snickered. “Yeah, that sucks.” He let his eyes drift absently over the crowd and popped a chunk of brownie into his mouth. “Thank god we don’t have to go to more of these after graduation.”

Spot looked around. He certainly wasn’t having as much fun this year as he had at Junior homecoming, but that made sense. He didn’t have a date—in fact, he barely knew anyone here, and those he did know, he didn’t know well.

He and Myron hung out, lamenting their sobriety until Meghan showed up to steal her boyfriend back for a slow dance. Spot remained in the corner, watching in mild fascination as the bustling crowd of individual students slowed and split into pairs. He watched Myron and Meghan, Hot Shot and his date, Vince and some random girl, all dancing in their little worlds as if there was no one else in the ballroom. Spot remembered what that was like. All of a sudden, he felt very alone.

He thought about Race again, alone in the behavioral health center. Well, Race wasn’t really alone, but neither was Spot, and Spot was sure as hell lonely. Spot didn’t want to be lonely, and he didn’t want Race to be lonely, and he had no idea why he was thinking these things, but he was. With no small amount of bafflement, Spot realized he wished Race was there.

With a heavy sigh, Spot stood up and headed for the door.

* * *

Race couldn’t sleep. This wasn’t new, of course, but it was still annoying. He was tired, certainly, but much more than that, he just didn’t want to be there, and sleep is about as close to an escape as you can really get. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard mattress. After his little stunt with the broken spoon, Race still wasn’t allowed his own clothes, but at least he’d gotten to keep his blankets. He had talked to Dr. Bunsen, tried to explain that it was just curiosity and something he didn’t intend to try again, but the doctor still didn’t give him any indication as to when he could leave or if he would now be kept longer.

Race rolled over again and pressed his face into his pillow, grumbling quiet nonsense to himself. At the sound of the door opening, he flipped over and sat up, confused by the sudden appearance of a nurse.

“Anthony?” she spoke quietly.

“Yeah?” Race answered warily.

The nurse smiled. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Race frowned, now  _ very _ confused and a bit suspicious. “Visiting ends at eight...it’s almost ten-thirty.”

“We’re making an exception,” she said. “If you’d rather sleep, though, I’ll let him know.

_ Him? _

Race got out of bed, entirely baffled, and a little bit excited. Who the hell would be there on a Saturday night? Who would the nurses let in after hours? Maybe it was his dad—that was the only thing that made sense.

Race stepped out into the hall, and after telling him to go to the lounge, the nurse headed back to her desk in the lobby area. Race padded barefoot down the hall, anticipation nearly bubbling over. He rounded the corner and stopped so hard he nearly fell over.

It was Spot.

Spot looking really  _ really _ nice—black dress pants, a white button down shirt with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows— _ wow _ —and a dark red bow tie hanging undone around his neck. He was standing over by the wall with the big windows, and he had been looking out at the little courtyard outside, but turned around at Race’s mildly noisy entrance. All that was missing was the gentle wind and singing animals and he could’ve been Disney’s first angry prince.

Race stood for a moment, just gaping at him. What was it about seeing someone in the opposite of their usual style that’s just  _ devastatingly _ attractive? It was clear Spot hadn’t done anything with his hair, and he was still wearing his dark red converse that conveniently matched the bow tie hanging open around his neck. This wonderful mix of dressed up laziness was enough to take one's breath away.

Spot looked a little sheepish when he saw Race. “Hi.”

Race continued staring for just a beat too long and then spoke. “The fuck are you doing here, man?” There was no aggression or disapproval, just completely surprised confusion.

Spot shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Homecoming’s boring.”

“Homecoming’s— Well yeah, duh, I’m not there.” Self-glorifying bullshit was reflexive at this point. “That doesn’t explain why you’re  _ here _ . How did you even get in? It’s way after visiting hours.”

“I told ‘em you’re missing your senior homecoming, really laid the guilt trip on ‘em.” Spot took a couple steps towards Race, looking at the floor.

Race moved further into the room. “Damn, maybe if I tell them I’m missing my senior recital they’ll let me out.”

Spot chuckled, and a little half-smile appeared on his face.

_ Shit _ , he’s pretty.

Race felt nervous, and he couldn’t quite settle on why. It wasn’t scared nervous, he just felt very tense, like something was about to happen. He cast about desperately for something to say rather than just continuing to awkwardly stare at his childhood bully turned absolutely  _ gorgeous _ project partner. After Spot’s other visit, Race wasn’t really sure how he should proceed. Did they still ‘hate each other’, or was that done with? If they still ‘hate each other’, then it made no sense for Spot to be there.

Spot glanced up at Race through his eyelashes, and holy  _ shit _ . Who authorized this man to be so attractive?

Race had gotten to one of the couches in the middle of the floor, and he sat, balancing, on the back of it, hands gripped on the backboard on either side of him. “Why, uh—why are you here?”

“I told you,” Spot said, taking a seat in a nearby chair, “homecoming’s boring.” He paused, making a face like he’d just smelled something bitter. “And I guess, for some reason, I wanted to see you,” he added, quieter.

A flush of pink and a little smile spread across Race’s face. “Oh...” After a moment, he worked out a proper sentence. “I’m pretty sure this place is more boring than homecoming, so not a great choice on your part,” he teased.

Spot half-smiled at him again. “You’d be surprised.”

Race’s smile widened a bit and he huffed, holding one hand out as if he was balancing something on his palm. “Music and dancing and snacks and friends,” he held his other hand out parallel to the first, “or a dingy psych ward.” He moved his hands briefly up and down to indicate the ‘weighing’ of the two before settling with the ‘psych ward’ hand well below the ‘homecoming’ hand.

Spot frowned and stood up. He walked over to Race and grabbed ahold of his left hand, turning it palm up, revealing the angry red scratches left over from Race’s little experiment.

“What the fuck is this?” Spot asked.

Race cringed. “It’s nothin’. I’m fine.”

Spot gently closed his free hand around Race’s forearm and brushed his thumb over the cuts. “Doesn’t look like nothin’.”

Somewhat surprised by this display of concern rather than yelling, Race sighed. “I was talking’ to one of the other guys in here, ‘n he said it helps him feel real, so...” He shrugged.

Spot looked up at him. “Feel real?”

“Yeah, or like, calm or in control or whatever.”

Spot kept looking at Race for a few seconds, then back down at his arm. “Did it work?”

Race shook his head. “Nah, it just hurt.”

“Hm.” Spot let go and shoved his hands back into his pockets.

“I shouldn’t’a done it,” Race grumbled. “I’m probably gonna have to stay longer now.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t’a done it,” Spot agreed, a little harshly but not quite a snap.

Race rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I did enough for any real, lasting damage.”

Spot glared at him, and he shrunk in on himself. Of course, he had no excuse. Of course, he had fucked everything up. He always fucked everything up.

“You know,” he chuckled bitterly, “I thought this was going to be the best year of my life—senior year of high school and all that.” He stretched out his arms in a grand gesture to the room. “Now, look at me.”

Spot did look at him, pressing his lips together in an expression of sympathy at best, pity at worst. Race didn’t know and didn’t particularly want to. Spot then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, and a moment later, some rock song Race recognized but didn’t know the name of started softly playing.

“There.” Spot set his phone on the arm of the couch. “It’s like homecoming, without all the stupid pictures and people you don’t like.”

Race laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Well, we’re also missing the shit brownies and condoms on the floor, if that’s important to ya.”

Another laugh, and Race slid off the back of the couch to stand up, extending his hand towards Spot.

Spot frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

“We’re gonna dance, stupid.”

“Oh,  _ hell _ no. I don’t—”

“No shut up c’mere.” Grinning, Race stepped forward and grabbed Spot’s hand to drag him out into the open space on the floor.

Spot leaned his head back and groaned, and somehow even that was super hot and erotic when it was Spot Conlon in formal wear doing it.

Race bit his lip in an effort not to smile even more. “Okay here, we’ll do something easy, I promise.”

Spot glared at him in skin-deep annoyance.

Over the next few minutes, Race attempted to teach a very stubborn and grumpy Spot Conlon a few dance basics as different songs shuffled through. Spot, surprisingly, was a good dancer, at least for someone who never really learned. That didn’t stop him from being ridiculously belligerent.

“Okay, but why eight?” he asked. “Why not four or twelve or sixteen?”

“That’s just how it works. Shut up.” Race rolled his eyes, not at all irritated. “Why does it matter?”

“Because it’s stupid, and dancing is gay,” Spot replied.

“ _ You’re _ gay,” Race pointed out, laughing.

“Yeah,  _ clearly _ .”

“Now will you shut your dumb mouth and dance?”

Spot huffed and grumbled gibberish as the song changed to something slower and quieter.

_ Will the faithful be rewarded, when we come to the end? Will I miss the final warning from the lie that I have lived? _

“Okay here let’s see if you can handle this one.” Race took hold of Spot’s hands and stepped close, putting them on his own waist before letting go and dropping his arms over Spot’s shoulders. “It’s just two steps, back and forth, like walking but good.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how to fuckin’ slow dance,” Spot grumbled.

He settled his hands on Race’s hips and gripped lightly, pulling them ever so slightly closer, so slightly in fact that Spot probably didn’t even notice, but Race noticed. His breath caught for half a second, and a tiny flush spread across his cheeks. Together they swayed back and forth to the music, occasionally taking tiny steps, but mostly staying in the same place. 

_ Stay with me, don’t let me go, because there’s nothing left at all. _

Slow dancing hardly counted as dancing at all, but it was still nice. Race got rather caught up in wonderment that this guy, who had come to visit him twice now, comforted him while he cried, and convinced the nurses to let him in after hours to give Race a mini homecoming, was the same guy who just a few weeks before called him a ‘stupid fucking faggot’, and punched the shit out of him. None of it made sense, or maybe it did, but he couldn’t focus on much other than the way Spot was holding him so gently and securely at the same time, like he was something worth holding onto. Race pressed the littlest bit closer and closed his eyes, willing the rest of the world to disappear. No more health center, no more hospital, no more stupid green scrubs. He felt peaceful, and relaxed as they continued to sway.

_ Stay with me, don’t let me go, until the ashes of Eden fall. _

“Hey,” Spot said gently, “you okay?”

Race opened his eyes again and leaned back enough to meet Spot’s gaze. “What? Yeah, why?” he answered just as softly.

“You look like your mind is halfway to California.”

“Oh.” He exhaled shortly, not quite amused. “Nah, I’m fine, just thinkin’.”

“About?”

Race was quiet for a moment. What  _ was _ he thinking about?

_ Are you with me after all? Why can’t I hear you? Are you with me through it all? _

He was thinking about how much he didn’t want to be there and how much he hated those dumb scrubs. He was wondering if the guys were having fun without him at homecoming. He was wondering if they’d ever find a medication that would work for him. But mostly, he was thinking about how much he wanted to kiss Spot.

So he did.

Leaving his arms draped across Spot’s shoulders, Race tilted his head slightly and closed the short distance between them to gently capture Spot’s lips. Spot responded immediately, holding Race just a little bit tighter and pulling him a little bit closer. Race tilted his head a tiny bit, remaining gentle, but deepening the kiss as he brought a hand up to tangle in Spot’s hair. A good portion of his mind was still very confused by all this. What had changed? He  _ certainly _ didn’t hate Spot anymore, and it seemed pretty clear that Spot didn’t hate him, either. The rest of his mind was lost in how soft Spot’s hair was, and how strong his arms felt around him, and how he was a  _ damn _ good kisser.

_ Heaven above me, take my hand. Shine until there’s nothing left but you. _

_ Heaven above me, take my hand. _

_ Shine until there’s nothing left but you. _


	31. Aunt Beth Is a Bowling Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A summary of the week following Homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andy and Kitty? Caught up on posting Theories of Conflict AND The Torrid Affair of Kack Jelly and Kosher Dave from Manhattan??? It’s more likely than you think.

Despite his unwillingness to ‘settle in’ at The Refuge, Race had actually grown rather fond of some of his fellow patients. At a glance, Mush was almost as reliably grumpy as Spot—which was impressive—but it became pretty clear that this was just a defense mechanism. Once you broke through his hard outer layer, Mush was all creamy center, like a semi-frozen chocolate ball. Sniper was sarcasm given human form, which Race found increasingly delightful, and Henry was just all around a sweetheart. Tragically, this little brotherhood was broken before it had even solidified. Monday was Henry’s last day in the health center, and while this was—of course—a good thing, the other boys were sad to see him go. The silver lining was that Mush opened up to Race and Sniper more, now that his main confidant was gone. Race found out that his initial impression of Mush as a little bit older than him was correct. Mush was twenty-one. He went to college, but was officially on medical leave because of his current situation. He’d struggled with depression since he was eighteen.

“Maybe it had something to do with college,” he said. It was Wednesday, and he and Race were chatting while Sniper was in solo therapy. “I don’t know, though. It’s not like I found college super distressing or anything. It’s like nothing happened, but everything changed all of a sudden.”

Race nodded. “That’s weird, but I guess it makes sense? Big change, upheaval, all that shit.”

“I guess,” Mush sighed, shifting in his chair. “Something for you to look forward to.”

Race chuckled wanly. “Oh boy.”

There was a pause, while Mush looked out the window and Race picked at the sleeve of his recently reacquired sweatshirt. Quiet was something Race had gotten used to, in the week and a half he had spent in The Refuge, where it was often quiet but never quite silent.

“Wonder what Henry’s doing, right now,” Mush said.

“Probably having a decent lunch,” Race replied.

Mush chuckled. “Lucky bastard.”

Race glanced over at the clock high on the wall. “Whaddayou bet we’re getting grilled cheese made with not-fully-melted Kraft Singles?”

Mush pulled a disgusted face and started to reply, but was quickly distracted as Sniper entered, white as a sheet.

Race looked up, concerned. “You okay, man?”

Sniper sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I’m getting discharged, today.”

Race’s jaw dropped for a moment. “Wait what? Why!?”

“They think I’m stable enough.” Sniper walked over to an adjacent chair and crashed down into it. “Fuck,” he groaned.

“Shit, man. What are you going to do?”

He shrugged.

Race frowned. “The staff know about all your shit at home, right?”

“Yeah, they just can’t do anything about it. I’m an adult.”

“That’s fucked,” Mush interjected. “Seriously fucked.”

Race once again tried to think of a way to help. “You said you got a grandma in Florida, right?”

Sniper looked at him quizzically. “Yeah?”

“Would she take you if you could get there?”

He sighed heavily. “Race—”

“No, shut up, come on, there’s gotta be something—”

“Not everyone gets a happy ending,” he snapped, standing up. “Not everyone gets adopted by wonderful parents and makes a bunch of great friends and lives a fantastic life. Some people just get to be miserable until they die. Fucking deal with it.” He turned and stormed off down the hallway, towards their room.

Race turned to look at Mush, confused. “I don’t get it: I’m just trying to help.”

Mush waved dismissively. “He’s not mad at you.”

Race frowned, looking towards the hallway Sniper had disappeared down. “Do you think he’d  _ let _ me try and help?”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t really know him.”

“Mm...”

Sniper certainly seemed the ‘too stubborn to accept help’ type, but if it was available, he’d be an idiot to refuse. Race decided to broach the subject with his parents, the next time they visited. Plane tickets weren’t  _ that _ expensive, and if Sniper’s grandmother would take him in…

“Dude, don’t beat yourself up over it,” Mush said. “Shit sucks, but it’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Race replied, still lost in thought. Life in The Refuge had become relentlessly boring, and, deny and hate it as he might, Race had more or less gotten used to being there. The possibility of helping Sniper, while unlikely to be fruitful, was at least something to think about.

* * *

Despite their rocky beginning, Spot had grown firmly attached to Lizzie, the pineapple green-cheeked conure. She could be loud and annoying, sure, but for the most part, she was just sweet. She liked to sit on Spot’s shoulder, cuddle up to his cheek, and fall asleep while he did homework. It was almost devastatingly cute, so much so that even Spot couldn’t help but melt. This particular night, however, she took to hopping around the desk, trying to tear pages out of Spot’s notebook, which was less cute but very entertaining.

Spot chuckled at her overly dramatic shriek when he gently swatted her away from his notebook for what must have been at least the tenth time. “You’re ridiculous.”

He could swear the little bird puffed up just a little, like a tiny huff, and he chuckled some more. Aunt Beth was on call, again, so it was just him and Lizzie for the night, but his mother was bound to call soon. The only question was whether she would voice or video call.

Almost as if on cue, Spot’s phone lit up with an incoming FaceTime call. He swiped the screen to answer, leaving it face up on the table. Lizzie peeked curiously down at the pixelated image of Spot’s mother.

“Hi, Mom,” Spot said, trying not to sound as bored as he was.

“Hi, Sean— Is that a bird??”

“Yeah, that’s Lizzie. Didn’t I tell you about Lizzie?” He probably hadn’t.

“No, I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Well, this is Lizzie.” Spot gestured to her with his pencil, despite being completely out of the frame of the camera.

“She’s cute. I didn’t know you liked birds.”

Spot shrugged. “I like  _ her _ .”

“Well, that’s nice, Sean.” There was a mildly uncomfortable silence for a moment before his mother spoke again. “I talked to your aunt, the other day,”

Spot’s head snapped up, and his eyes widened. “Really?” His mom and Aunt Beth hadn’t been speaking much, since Aunt Beth agreed to let Spot move in.

“Yes. She mentioned a friend of yours being in the hospital?”

Spot cringed. “Yeah... What did she say?”

“She said there had been a fight, and if you hadn’t been there, he probably wouldn’t have made it. That was very brave of you, Sean. Are you okay?” She actually sounded properly sincere.

Spot blinked a few times. Somehow, he had avoided really, properly  _ thinking _ about the fight. Sure, it crossed his mind all the time. Hell, he’d had a couple nightmares about it. None of that involved thinking very deeply about what had happened and what hadn’t happened. He grunted, propping his elbow on the desk and leaning his head down to push his fingers through his hair. “Wasn’t brave. I was scared as shit.”

“You can be scared and still be brave, sweetie.”

“Hmm.” He supposed that was true, but he hadn’t felt it. He’d just done the bare minimum, taking Race to the hospital. He wasn’t some hero.

“You weren’t hurt, were you?” his mother asked.

“No, no.” Spot shook his head. “Ruined my shirt, but whatever.” Lizzie pecked at his mother’s face on the screen, and he cracked a smile.

His mother nodded. “Good. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“So...” Spot tapped his pencil rhythmically against his notebook. He had no idea what to say to his mother, and in a cold, factual way, he knew that was sad.

“Are you doing okay with that whole mess? That must’ve been upsetting.”

Spot sighed, still tapping away. “I’ve mostly just been trying not to think about.”

His mother nodded, as if she understood. “Beth said your friend is recovering well?”

Spot frowned. Physically, sure, Race seemed to be doing fine for a guy who had his lung punctured by a knife two weeks ago, but he was a shell of his former self, and it was strangely unsettling. After everything he’d told Spot about his biological father, and then the cutting... None of that was his to share, though, so he told his mother, “Yeah, he’s alright.”

“That’s good, I’m glad you’ve made some friends there.”

Heh. ‘Friends’. Spot didn’t think of Race as a friend—more as a likable parasite with a cute butt.

“Oh, I almost forgot—how was homecoming?” his mother asked with only mostly faked enthusiasm.

Spot almost laughed out loud. “Homecoming, right. It was fine. Did Aunt Beth send you the pictures?”

“She did! You looked very handsome.”

He cringed. “Thanks, Mom.”

He heard another voice through the line, muffled by distance, and his mother was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Your father wants to know who you went with.”

_ First of all _ , Spot thought,  _ my father doesn’t even know where I am, much less that I went to senior homecoming this past weekend _ , but he didn’t say any of that. “I went by myself,” he admitted, “met up with some friends when I got there.”

His mother relayed the message before saying, “Well, that sounds like fun. Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, it was good,” Spot lied.

“Good.”

It seemed they had reached the point where the surface level their conversations rested on ran out. In a stroke of luck—bad luck, maybe, but luck nonetheless—Lizzie chose this moment to shit all over the desk.

Spot groaned. “Mom, I gotta go. Lizzie’s makin’ a mess everywhere.”

“Oh. Alright, sweetie. Have a good night.”

“Bye, Mom,” Spot said, and he hung up before she could start the awkward string of ‘love you’s. He did love his mother, but it was complicated, and he didn’t feel like dealing with it when there was bird shit on his desk. He looked at Lizzie. “You’re disgusting, you know that?”

She chirped happily and hopped up onto his notebook to bite at the corner and try to rip a page out. Spot turned to a blank page and let her go to town, getting up to find Clorox and paper towels. He’d take bird shit over awkward conversations with his mom and ‘dad’ any day.

* * *

Race hadn’t been properly sleeping since admission to The Refuge, and now that Sniper had been discharged, leaving him without a roommate, he was even more on edge and unhappy. With Henry gone, too, Race and Mush shared a sort of camaraderie, but this didn’t help with nights, as Mush still had a roommate, and room swaps weren’t allowed.

Race didn’t sleep at all Wednesday night, sharply aware of the empty bed on the other side of the room. On Thursday, after a slow, empty sort of day spent halfheartedly working on a jigsaw puzzle, Race didn’t even bother trying to sleep, but rather wandered the hallways like the ghost of a small, murdered Victorian child until a nurse scolded him and sent him to bed.

Friday afternoon, as Race and another patient—whose name he had forgotten at this point—started their eighth round of Uno, Mush came into the lounge, smiling. Race glanced up at him in mild curiosity.

“Hey man, what’s got you in such a good mood?”

“They’re finally letting me out of this shithole,” Mush told him. “I’ve been here a fuckin’  _ month _ , man.”

“Oh shit, that’s great!” Race answered, matching Mush’s grin.

“I’ve gotta go pack up my shit.” Mush clapped Race on the shoulder. “Hey, in case I don’t see you again, good luck, Race.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks, man.” Race was trying to be happy for him—this was great. Mush had wanted to go home, and now he could. But, once he left, Race would be left alone. Sure there were other patients, but he didn’t know any of them.

Mush gave him one last smile and headed off down the hallway. Race very carefully kept his own smile on until Mush turned the corner and disappeared, and then a frown settled heavy across his brow. He got up from the table, apologizing to the other guy for ending the game so abruptly, and headed down the hallway in the opposite direction, towards the front desk. He rapped on the counter to get the attention of the nurse who was sitting at the computer.

She glanced up at him and smiled politely. “Yes, Anthony?”

“Can I talk to Dr. Bunsen?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll call him for you, now. Is something the matter?”

He shook his head. “I just want to know when I can go home.”

Her smile turned sympathetic. “Alright, just hold tight for a bit.

Race nodded, leaning on his folded arms against the high counter to wait.

The nurses made a call on her desk phone, and a couple minutes later, Dr. Bunsen rounded the corner.

“Hello, Anthony. You wanted to talk?”

“Hi, Dr. Bunsen. When can I go home?”

The doctor blinked a couple times, clearly caught off guard by the sudden question. “Why don’t we step into my office and talk?”

Race nodded and turned to follow him. They made their way into the office and sat down on their respective sides of the desk. This was a routine, at this point.

Dr. Bunsen placed his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Anthony,” he sighed, “my biggest concern is your safety. I have to make sure, when I make the decision to discharge you, that’s not a decision I come to regret.”

Race nodded again. “Makes sense.”

Dr. Bunsen continued, “Now, I know you’re not suicidal. That was never a question. What you are is manic—very manic. You have put yourself in danger multiple times, and you’ve acted aggressively towards others. I have to make sure that doesn’t happen again. Next time, you might not get lucky.”

Race shifted unhappily in his chair. “I know...”

“I’ve been speaking with your regular therapist, and we both agree that you’ve just had a real manic episode. That means you have bipolar disorder.”

He cringed. “Oh, great.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Dr. Bunsen assured him. “Bipolar is very common. Millions of people have it and lead perfectly successful, fulfilling lives.”

“Good for them,” Race mumbled.

“Last week, you said you were still feeling...what was the word you used?” Dr. Bunsen asked.

“‘Squishy’.”

“Squishy, right. Are you feeling any better on the Wellbutrin?”

Race thought for a moment and shrugged. “I think; it’s kinda hard to tell.”

Dr. Bunsen nodded. “It can be hard, when you’re in here. Nothing is normal.”

Race nodded as well, mildly surprised by such a sympathetic answer. “Yeah...”

“I don’t want to give you a set answer as to when you can go home, because I can’t be one-hundred percent sure of it. I do think you’re improving on the Lamictal and Wellbutrin, so that’s a good sign.”

Race sighed. “Okay...” He should’ve known better than to hope for any sort of satisfactory answer.

“Is there anything else we can do for you, Anthony?”

“I guess not,” he said quietly, defeated.

Dr. Bunsen stood up and rounded the desk. He patted Race’s shoulder in an oddly affectionate gesture. “You’ll be home soon, Anthony.”

Race stood as well. “Thanks, Dr. Bunsen.”

The doctor smiled. “Any time, kid.”

After talking with Dr. Bunsen, Race retreated to his room. He was exhausted, but he didn’t want to sleep—the new normal—so he just lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and thinking. He was glad his friends—were they even friends?—had gotten to go home...well, not Sniper, but the rest of them. Henry and Mush had both been happy to leave, as well they should, and Race tried to be happy for them, but he had a hard time pushing through the sense of isolation. Even when they had been here, Race had felt wildly uncomfortable and alone. He didn’t want to be in the hospital, whether it was a proper hospital or not, it didn’t matter, it was all the same. Even so little as the smell of the place made him feel sick and afraid. The logical part of his brain knew that this time was different; it was okay, he wasn’t truly hurt, he wasn’t truly alone. His friends and his family came to visit often, and he had people to talk to.

Of course, the logical part of Racetrack Higgins’ brain was a very small part. Those people to talk to were now gone, and the fact that he had been there long enough for his family and friends to have the chance to visit ‘often’ was deeply upsetting to him. Race curled up into a ball, rolling onto his side and shutting his eyes. He felt very alone, and he prayed that he would be sent home, soon.

* * *

Spot heard the front door open, and a moment later, Aunt Beth called up the stairs, “Sean?”

He frowned. Aunt Beth wasn’t usually home this early on Friday evenings. “Yeah?”

He heard footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later Aunt Beth knocked on his open bedroom door, leaning in the doorway. “Hey, I got someone to cover my shift tonight, thought we might go do something fun.”

Spot blinked a few times. “What?” he asked stupidly.

She let out a short, amused breath. “Well, you’ve been living here for a few months now, and we haven’t really had much family time, so I thought I’d take the night off so we can have some fun.”

Oh. That was...nice. “Whaaat did you have in mind?”

Aunt Beth pursed her lips, thinking, and shrugged. “Bowling?”

* * *

“How often do you go bowling, exactly?” Spot asked as Beth rolled her second strike in a row.

“Oh, not that much, lately,” she answered, returning to her hard plastic, vaguely scoop-shaped seat. “I was in a league in college.

“What the fuck?” Spot laughed quietly.

“What? I used to have fun!” she replied, faking indignance.

Spot shook his head, choosing a ball off the return rack and rolling it down the lane. He managed to knock a few pins down this time, thank god.

Aunt Beth won the first game, and the second. About halfway through the third, she suggested a pause for snacks, and they went up to the counter to order a variety of awful greasy foods. 

“So,” Aunt Beth said as they waited. “You never told me how homecoming was.”

Spot sighed. What was it with adults and wanting to know about homecoming? “It was good,” he said vaguely.

She nodded. “Okay, good’s good.” She thanked the very bored looking girl at the counter as she handed over their tray, and the two of them headed back to the high bar-table at their lane.

“I didn’t go to my senior homecoming.” Aunt Beth said, looking contemplatively at her slice of cheese pizza, which was rather disturbingly shiny.

“Why not?” Spot asked.

“Oh, me and my friends were filling the teachers’ lounge with frogs.”

He sputtered and laughed.

Beth smiled. “Believe it or not, I used to be quite the rebel.”

“Where’d you get the frogs?”

“You’d be surprised how many live animals you can order in bulk online. We were protesting the upcoming dissection unit in bio class.”

“Don’t you stab people with needles for a living?” Spot snickered, taking a sip of his over-iced Dr. Pepper.

“Well yes but that’s to  _ help _ those people,” she replied.

Spot hummed in understanding, a little startled to realize how genuinely enjoyable hanging out with Aunt Beth was. He’d never related to his parents, like this.

“Besides I wouldn’t call it  _ stabbing _ .”

“It’s stabbing,” Spot argued, smiling.

“It’s not stabbing! It’s...a carefully targeted puncture.” Aunt Beth was clearly trying not to laugh.

“What’s the difference?”

She failed to hold back an amused smile. “Thousands of dollars in student loans.”

“Ha. Fuck that,” Spot replied between bites of really bad pizza.

She finally did laugh. “Well it’s too late now, for me.”

“Sucks for you.”

She laughed again. “Yeah, yeah it does.”

“I don’t want to go to college,” Spot confessed. He’d never told anyone that before, but it felt good to say it.

Aunt Beth looked up at him, seeming interested, but not especially surprised. “Oh yeah? What do you want to do?”

“I, uh...” Spot, on the other hand, looked down at his plate and tapped his fingers on the counter. “I was thinking about the military, actually.”

Her eyebrows went up in mild surprise, but she nodded. “I suppose I could see that.”

Spot shrugged.

Beth shrugged as well. “There’s no point going to college if you don’t want to. That’s just wasting money and time.”

Spot nodded. “Right.”

“Would you want to do some sort of military career, or just for awhile and then do something else?”

Spot hadn’t thought of that. He just wanted to get  _ out _ ; what happened after didn’t much matter. “I guess I’ll just see what happens.”

She nodded. “You could probably get your tuition covered for some trade school, instead of college, if you wanted to do that.”

He chuckled. “That’s how I’m gonna frame it, if my parents give me shit.”

Beth didn’t quite roll her eyes. “It’s a perfectly reasonable choice.”

“Mind tellin’ Mark that?” Spot asked. “He about had a heart attack when I told him I wasn’t gonna play football at Duane.”

Now she did roll her eyes. “I get the feeling he’d be quite proud to have a military man in the family.

“‘Family’,” Spot said, complete with finger-quotes.

Beth offered a sympathetic smile.

“I just...” He sighed. He couldn’t believe he was actually talking about this. “I just don’t feel like he’s my dad. And I know he is. I know he was there for me when my father wasn’t. I’ve heard it all from my mother.”

Beth nodded. “I can understand that. Family isn’t a thing that can just be decided on—well, I mean, it is, technically, but feelings wise.”

“Yeah.” Spot combed his fingers through his hair and leaned back against the hard plastic back of the barstool. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Sure,”

“My dad—” Spot frowned. “Was he as shitty as they say?”

Beth sighed. “How shitty do they say he was?”

“The devil, basically.”

She smiled wryly. “Well, I don’t know about the  _ devil _ , but...” She sighed again. “He had a lot of issues. He wasn’t stable. He loved you, though.”

“Hm,” Spot grunted bitterly. “I don’t even know his name, besides ‘Conlon’.”

“Do you want to?” Beth asked him, and he nodded. “Patrick,” she told him. “Patrick Conlon.”

_ Patrick Conlon _ . That was the name of the man responsible for Spot’s existence, who knew and apparently loved him, but of whom he had no memory whatsoever.

“Why didn’t they change my last name?”

Beth shook her head, pressing her lips together. “I don’t know, Sean.”

He chuckled. Sean  _ Conlon _ . It was like he didn’t belong anywhere—not with his mother’s family, not with his step-father’s family, and not with his biological father’s family. He was alone.


	32. RELEASE THE NOODLE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race‘s first weekend out of The Refuge.

Standing by the front desk, Race shifted impatiently, fidgeting and tugging at his hair just behind his ear. Finally,  _ finally _ , he had been cleared for discharge, and now he was just waiting for his parents to pick him up. He recognized their car when it pulled into the parking lot, and it took everything he had not to bolt right then and there. Luckily, he didn’t have to, as his mother took off in all but a dead sprint to get to him, as soon as she set foot on the ground. Race met her at the door and very nearly knocked her down as he crashed into her arms. His father wasn’t far behind.

“Are you ready to go, Tony?” Mrs. Higgins asked gently.

“Yes please dear God get me out of here,” Race answered in a rush.

His parents ushered him out through the automatic doors, and Race blinked a few times; the outside seemed brighter than it used to be, and it wasn’t necessarily pleasant. It’s not that he hadn’t gotten to go outside at all while he was in The Refuge, but the yard was small and cramped with a tall privacy fence.

Once they got to the car, Mrs. Higgins got into the backseat, allowing Race the front, and he thanked her quietly as he climbed in. The car smelled funny, as even familiar cars tend to do when you haven’t ridden in them in a while.

“Are you hungry?” Mr. Higgins asked, reaching across the center console to brush Race’s hair down. “We could stop somewhere on the way home. Anywhere you like.”

Race frowned slightly. “You guys aren’t gonna be all weird now, right?”

Mr. Higgins frowned back. “What do you mean?”

“About me. Y’know with the whole…” Race gestured vaguely back towards the health center rather than finishing his sentence.

His parents made eye contact for a moment in the rearview mirror before his mother replied, “We’ll do our best sweetie, but things  _ are _ different right now. You’re on new medication. We haven’t had you home in two weeks.”

Race’s frown deepened. “I’m still me.”

“Of course, you are.” Mrs. Higgins unbuckled her seatbelt so she could lean in over the center console. “You’ll always be our baby, Tony.”

“We’re going to take care of you, just like we would if you had a cold or the flu,” Mr. Higgins explained. “We’re going to help you until everything is okay, again.”

Race sighed, not really sure how to further argue his point. He understood that things were different, but also they sort of weren’t? He knew no one else would see it that way, so he just stayed quiet and nodded.

“So what about food?” Mr. Higgins asked. “Do you want to stop, or would you rather go straight home?”

Mrs. Higgins chimed in, “I can make you something at home, too, sweetie.”

“I wanna go home,” Race mumbled.

“Okay.” Mrs. Higgins returned to her seat and re-buckled her seatbelt. “Do you want to invite Jack and Albert over?”

Race hesitated, feeling oddly off balance and mildly overwhelmed, which further threw him off. He was going home; what was the problem? “Tomorrow?”

“Whenever you want, just say the word.”

He cringed again. “Please don’t be weird.”

“I’m not—”

“Rachel,” Mr. Higgins cut her off.

She closed her mouth and looked down at her hands in her lap, then out the window as they pulled out of the parking lot.

Race, as usual, felt guilty; he knew his parents were just trying to help. Everyone was just trying to help. “I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be sorry, sweetie,” his mother said, but her voice was barely a whisper, and he could see her struggling to keep it together.

As they pulled up at a stop light, in an uncharacteristically reckless move as far as car-related things go, Race unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed across the console and into the back seat to curl up against his mother’s side, pausing to buckle himself into the middle seat. Mrs. Higgins wrapped her arms around him, one around his back and the other cradling his head to her chest. As the silence stretched on, Race found himself once again drifting down a well traveled path of ‘what if’s. If he had been the Higgins’ biological son, would he still have all these issues? Probably not the PTSD, but maybe the rest of it. If they had found him when he was younger, would things be any different? People say early intervention is always the most helpful thing, but does that even apply to things like PTSD or bipolar?

Uncomfortable as he was slightly hunched over to fit under Mrs. Higgins’ arm, Race shifted so he could lay down across the seat, resting his head in his mother’s lap. She began to gently comb her fingers through his hair with one hand, as the other came to rest on the back of his shoulder, not quite on his neck. Mrs. Higgins had a habit of touching the jagged scar across his back when she was particularly worried about him, petting as if she could wipe away the scar and perhaps the trauma with it. 

“You okay back there, bud?” Mr. Higgins asked, glancing in the mirror.

“Yeah,” Race answered automatically. In truth, he felt a bit sick to his stomach. He was never comfortable, being in the back seat of a car. He avoided it as much as he possibly could, but in that moment he felt it was more important to be there with his mother. So long as he kept his eyes closed, he could mostly ignore his discomfort.

Luckily, Mr. Higgins was a very careful driver, and it was a smooth ride home. Race let out a relieved breath when they pulled into the driveway, feeling very much like a weight had been lifted from his chest. He climbed out of the car and headed inside, waiting to keep pace with his parents. Entering the house reminded him a lot of getting in the car. It felt a little off, looked a little different, smelled a little wrong. It was cleaner than in had been, the last time he was home, probably on account of his mother being home by herself all day.

Despite the ‘off’-ness, it felt  _ damn _ good to be home. Race kicked his shoes off, vaguely towards the hall closet, and walked over to flop face first into the couch with a loud groan. 

“What do you want for lunch?” Mrs. Higgins called to him on the way to the kitchen. “We have stuff to make sandwiches, grilled cheese, we could order pizza...”

Race rolled over so his voice wouldn’t be muffled by the cushion, but rolled a bit too far and slid off the couch to land with a  _ thud _ . “Ooh, can we do kitchen sink grilled cheese?”

Kitchen sink grilled cheese was a favorite, developed one of the many late nights—or very early mornings—that Mr. and Mrs. Higgins had stayed up with Race, talking him down from a nightmare. They called it ‘kitchen sink grilled cheese’ because they put everything in it but the kitchen sink. Anything found in the kitchen was fair game, resulting in some very odd combinations. Swiss cheese with turkey, pickles, and dried ramen—along with the chicken flavored dust packet—thrown in for crunch was surprisingly good. Pepper jack with mushrooms, sweet potato fries, and barbecue sauce was also a favorite, but the mozzarella, sour cream and onion potato chip, cauliflower, and bell pepper incident was one only spoken of in hushed tones.

Mr. Higgins snickered at Race’s fall. “You okay there, bud?” he asked as Mrs. Higgins shouted her agreement from the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Race replied from the floor.

“Come on—you have to help me pick ingredients!” Mrs. Higgins called.

Race groaned again and rolled over onto his back to sit up. He made his way into the kitchen and flopped against the island counter.

Mrs. Higgins was digging around in the fridge. “We have ham, honey mustard, apples...?”

“That sounds awful. I love it,” Race replied, pushing off the counter to go rummage in the pantry. After rooting around for a minute he pulled out a box to hold up for appraisal. “I found graham crackers—is that anything? That’s not anything.” He answered his own question with a disapproving shake of his head and put the box back.

Mrs. Higgins chuckled. “We’ve used worse.”

“That’s true,” Race replied, about halfway inside the pantry at this point. “I mean, we almost have a sort of semi-sweet palate going on, with the apples and everything.” He emerged, scrutinizing a small spice jar. “Cinnamon?”

“Cinnamon is good with apples.” Mrs. Higgins nodded.

Race nodded as well, turning to set the cinnamon on the counter. “‘Kay dad, your turn to find something.”

The main guideline for a kitchen sink grilled cheese was everyone had to pick at least one ingredient. Mr. Higgins chose sharp cheddar and wavy cut potato chips, and so the construction and cooking began. The sandwiches turned out on the slightly pleasant side of edible, and they moved to the living room to watch a movie while they ate. After some discussion and a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors between Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, Raiders of the Lost Ark was put in, and as it played, Race managed to quote a good third of the movie. After the end credits rolled—during which they all pointed out and laughed at what ridiculous names and titles they could catch—Race decided he was going to go sleep. It was only three in the afternoon , but he was exhausted—existentially, physically, emotionally, the whole shebang.

“I’ma go have a nice, light coma,” Race said, standing up from the couch. 

His parents stood as well, and Mrs. Higgins pulled him into a hug. “Okay, baby. Go get some rest.”

Mr. Higgins ruffled Race’s hair as he passed on his way to the stairs. “Love you, bud.”

“Love you too, dad. Love you mom.”

“Love you.”

Race headed upstairs to crash gratefully into his bed, and for the first time in eighteen days, sleep came quickly, and he was out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

For the first time pretty much ever, Race was up and out of bed Sunday morning before his mom even had a chance to call him downstairs. He was excited to have a normal day. He took a quick shower after breakfast, focusing a bit more than usual on actually cleaning himself rather than just playing with the water and absently scrubbing shampoo into his hair. Heading back to his room to get dressed, Race felt properly clean for the first time since his admission to the hospital two weeks before After throwing on some jeans and a gray t-shirt, he headed for the stairs, but stopped and doubled back to pull a blue button up out of his closet.

“Tony!” his dad yelled up the stairs. “Hurry up!”

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were putting in an honest effort to be normal, which Race appreciated. There were a few things. His mom wanted to drive him places for a while, which she assured him was ‘solely for her own peace of mind, because she had missed him’, but Race didn’t entirely buy it. If he wanted to go out, he had to take at least one friend with him, and Tommy Boy didn’t count because he was younger. And, importantly, if he wanted to work with Spot on their biology project after school, that had to happen at the Higgins’ house with at least one of his parents at home. Race begrudgingly agreed to these rules—not to say he really had a choice in the matter, anyway—and the family left for church.

Once they got there, Race began the traditional hunt for Elmer Kasprzak. He found him in the corner, already looking high as a kite.

Race snickered. “Hey, dumbass.”

Elmer glanced up, and his eyes widened. “Yooooo.” He stood up and pulled Race into a loose hug.

Race laughed, hugging him back. “Hi, Elmer.”

“Dude, dude dude dude.” Elmer shoved him off and took his face in both his hands instead. “The Louisons fuckin’ changed churches.”

Race’s jaw dropped. “Wait  _ what? _ ”

“Couldn’t deal with Buttons having a husband.” Elmer’s eyes widened even more. “Oh, I met Buttons’ husband.”

“Aww, no fair, I missed him?” Race whined. “I wanna meet Mr. Buttons.”

Elmer waved him off. “Dad and I went to their house. Dad needed to talk to Buttons about all the drama.”

“I still wanna meet him,” Race grumbled.

“Ask Buttons.”

“Hmm.” Race stroked his chin as if he had a beard and was being all pompous and musing. “I bet it would be pretty easy to convince Mom we need to have Mr. and Mr. Buttons over for dinner, to thank them for being gay.”

“Tony! Elmer!” Mrs. Higgins waved from across the narthex, then gestured towards the sanctuary.

“C’mon.” Race jerked his head to indicate Elmer should follow, and headed after his mother.

After the service, Race and his parents stopped at McDonald’s on the way home. They had nearly driven past, but Race and Elmer—who was going home with them on Race’s request and his enthusiastic agreement—had begun to chant, “McDonalds! McDonalds! McDonalds!” while bouncing up and down in their seats. Mr. Higgins sighed and, for a hot minute, Race expected him to pull through the drive through, order a black coffee, and drive away, but instead he pulled into a parking space. Race and Elmer cheered.

Once inside, they went up to the counter to place their orders. Race asked for ‘so many nuggets’, and when the girl behind the counter asked him to clarify, he waved dismissively and said, “Nah, you know, just so many, surprise me.”

“Whatever your largest McNugget meal is,” Mr. Higgins said, sounding low-key dead inside.

Race’s smile faltered at the tone in his father’s voice, and he looked at Mrs. Higgins questioningly.

She just chuckled and ruffled his hair. “You’re funny.”

Things felt weird, and Race couldn’t figure out why. Maybe he was still adjusting to being on the outside, or maybe everyone else was adjusting to having him back.

Mr. Higgins gestured for Elmer to order, and there was a brief, polite struggle as Elmer offered to pay for his own meal, and Mr. Higgins insisted otherwise. Race and Elmer sat in a booth, while Mr. and Mrs. Higgins chose a table a few yards away, saying they understood their teenagers’ need for ‘friend time’. Race wasted no time in pushing up his sleeves and digging into his McNuggets, and Elmer did the same with his cheeseburger.

“What did you do to your arm?” Elmer asked.

The marks had faded a lot, but they were still there, and there just aren’t a lot of ways to play off parallel lines on your non-dominant forearm. Race hesitated to answer, but judging by the look on Elmer’s face, that was answer enough in and of itself.

“Damn, dude,” Elmer said, apparently not  _ that _ concerned by Race’s little bout of self-harm.

Race shrugged awkwardly. “One of the other guys in there said it helped, so I guess I thought I’d give it a try.”

“Did it help?”

He let out a not quite amused huff. Everyone asked that. “No. It just hurt.”

Elmer seemed satisfied with this answer and directed his attention out the window instead. “Do you think Kelsey would go out with me, if I asked?”

Race blinked. “Which one is Kelsey?”

Elmer rolled his eyes. “Curly, red hair, freckles, always wears that one shirt?”

“Oh yeah, sure. I mean, anyone would be an idiot to even try and shoot you down, so like, go for it my dude.”

Elmer snickered. “I’m touched, Race. Really, I am.”

Race scoffed. “I mean, ‘cause you’re persistent and annoying. You’d wear anyone down.”

“Even better.” Elmer glared at Race and slurped his soda as loudly as he possibly could. “Anyone you’ve got your eye on?”

Race half choked on the nugget he had just popped into his mouth. He had forgotten that his other friends didn’t know about Spot.

He was caught slightly off guard by his own train of thought. Since when did he ‘have his eye’ on Spot? Sure, he was hot, and irritatingly good in bed, but that wasn’t ‘having his eye on him’, was it? That wasn’t having  _ feelings _ .

“Uh, not really.” Race coughed.

“Oh, you are a  _ liar _ ,” Elmer gasped. “You are  _ lying _ to your pastor’s son.”

“No, I’m not!” Race replied, even as a slight blush spread over his cheeks.

“Did you meet him in the loony bin? Have some kind of tragic, hospitalized romance? Sneak around behind the nurses backs and—”

“Oh my god no shut up,” Race groaned.

“Then  _ who is it? _ ” Elmer insisted, reaching across the table to beat his face with a French fry.

Race flailed in an attempt to fend off the salty weapon. “It’s just a guy from school! Knock it off!”

“Is he a Christian? Has he accepted the love of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ into his heart?”

“What? Man, I don’t know!” Race sputtered.

“But he’s gay, right?”

He rolled his eyes heavily. “No, Elmer, I got fucked by a straight guy.”

Elmer slammed his hands on the table so hard, their trays bounced. “Oh my god, is it Snack Size Satan!?”

Race practically lunged across the table to clap his hands over Elmer’s mouth. “Would you quiet down!? Goddamn.”

Elmer shoved him off and waved at him dismissively. “Well, it doesn’t really matter if he’s a Christian or not; you’re both going to Hell, so.”

Race groaned, dropping his face into his hands and sinking down to the tabletop. “At least Hell won’t be weird and confusing.”

“Weird and confusing, no,” Elmer mused, crunching on a fry, “just eternal agony and suffering.”

“I dunno—doesn’t sound much different.”

“I imagine it’s a lot like high school, but, you know, with heat blisters.” Elmer shrugged. “I don’t believe in it.”

Race sat up again, running a hand through his hair absently. “You don’t?”

Elmer shook his head. “Haven’t in a while.”

Race twisted his mouth downwards as one does when slightly bemused. “Huh. What changed?”

“I just...thought about it.” Elmer was looking out the window again. “Didn’t make any sense to me, when I really thought about it.”

“Hmm,” Race nodded. He’d honestly never really given it much thought—Hell, Heaven, any sort of afterlife, really. He believed in God, and all that, but he’d never gone too deep into all the rest of it.

“Anyway,” Elmer returned to his food, unperturbed, “I think all this ‘godly dating’ nonsense is the perfect segue into me bedding a cute, Christian girl.”


	33. A Study Date Is Still a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race returns to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now have [adorable fanart](https://goforthandbegay.tumblr.com/post/190560173047/spot-conlon-based-off-of-a-fantastic-fic-on-ao3) by PeasantProphetDavid, and we're pretty crazy about it.
> 
> As you have probably noticed the considerable slowing of updates, do not be alarmed. I have simply started my last semester of college (omg) and am shorter on time, but not at all on interest in continuing this story.

Race felt super weird and conspicuous walking into school on Monday morning. A few people dropped their conversations into hushed tones as he walked past, and as awkward as it felt, he was kind of amused by the attention. He’d been gone for two weeks, and his friends had told him only briefly about the crazy rumors going around as to where he had been.

Jack found him immediately and broke into a grin. “God, it’s nice to see you here.”

Race brightened and lightly punched Jack’s shoulder in greeting. “Couldn’t keep me locked up forever, I guess.”

Jack tossed one arm over Race’s shoulders and placed his other hand on his stomach. “And how’s the baby?”

Race laughed. “I’ve been thinking about getting one of those creepy, realistic baby dolls in a few months, really try and sell the whole thing.”

“It could be a social experiment!” Jack suggested.

“Dammit, if this had happened at the start of the semester I probably coulda found a way to use it for the bio project.”

“Hey, it’s got something to do with parents and kids and shit, right?”

Race snickered. “Yeah, ‘bout how non-bio kids are parasites. But I’m pregnant, so it’ll be a bio kid, so it doesn’t really fit with the theme,” Race explained as if this were the most normal and real thing in the world.

That’s when they spotted Albert down the hallway. He was hard to miss, what with the bright red hair and all. 

A grin spread quickly across Race’s face, and he elbowed Jack lightly in the ribs. “Hey,watch—if I run and jump at Al, he’ll totally catch me.”

Without waiting for any reply, Race yelled, “Hey, stupid!” and charged down the hallway towards Albert. Thankfully, there weren’t a lot of people in the way, so he managed to pick up a good amount of speed as Albert turned around to see the source of the yelling, mere seconds before Race launched himself into the air and promptly bounced off of Albert’s chest and hit the floor as Albert stood stock still, just staring at him with a rather bored look on his face. Jack had collapsed to the floor wheezing.

“Dude what the fuck?” Race whined, stuck somewhere between a glare and a pout at Albert’s feet.

Albert snickered and offered him a hand to pull him up.

“You’re a dick,” Race grumbled as he took his hand.

Albert pulled him up and into a quick bro hug. “S’good to have you back, idiot.”

“Yeah whatever,” Race replied, nothing but affection in his voice. “Jack said you’d catch me—“

“I did  _ not! _ ”

The bell rang, interrupting their reunion, and Albert groaned and shut his locker. “I’ll see you in bio.”

Race nodded, punching Albert’s shoulder in lieu of any goodbye, and headed towards his first class.

* * *

Spot was tired. Lizzie had kept him awake the night before twittering and throwing things around her cage until he let her out and played with her for a little while around one in the morning. She shit on the floor and on his bed, so he had to waste time cleaning that up. After that, with his comforter in the wash, he had trouble falling asleep because he was cold. He liked Lizzie, but holy shit, was she a pain in the ass sometimes. By the time he collapsed into his seat in AP Bio, he was ready to sleep in class and deal with the consequences.

Then, Race walked in behind Albert, and Spot was suddenly very awake.

When had Race gotten out? Was he feeling better? Why did Spot care? In the end, Spot might as well have slept through class, because he couldn’t focus on anything other than the fact that Race was there again, sitting behind him and a little to the left, like everything was normal again. Except it wasn’t. Was it? Spot had no idea how the hell to feel about Race, anymore.

Once the bell rang and Spot got up to pack his bag, he again became hyper aware of Race, who was packing his bag as well and kept shooting looks across the room towards Spot. Spot swallowed hard, feeling his cheeks heat up and hating every second of it. He stared intently at his backpack and not and Race as he packed, but as the classroom emptied, it was harder and harder for Spot to ignore Race’s inarguably noticeable voice as he talked with Albert about god only knows what.

Spot managed to keep his head down until Race and Albert reached the doorway, at which point he felt a sort of tug in his chest that pulled words out of him. “Hey, Race.”

Race paused, one hand on the doorway, and turned back to meet his gaze. “Uh, yeah?”

Albert had stopped as well and was also looking at Spot, but with a distinctly nastier expression than Race.

Spot walked over, willing his heart rate to slow down and cursing it for speeding up in the first place. He glared at Albert. “Mind if I talk to my project partner, for a second?”

Albert curled his lip in half a snarl before clapping Race’s shoulder. “Yell if ya need me.”

Spot watched for a moment as he walked away, before turning to Race. “You okay?”

Race absently tugged at the curls at the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah,” He didn’t sound particularly convincing.

“You were gone for two weeks,” Spot pointed out. That had to be overwhelming.

Race let out a slightly huffy breath. “Yeah, it’s uh...it’s kind of a lot, I guess.”

Spot nodded. “If you need—” He cut off abruptly, surprised by the words coming out of his own mouth. He bounced slightly at the balls on his feet, feeling pretty stupid. “You know, if you need, like, notes or something, I can—”

Race looked at him for just a bit too long, and then shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Spot felt that small tug in his chest, again. “We should work on the project, soon,” he said in a rush.

Race looked mildly startled, and the slightest blush spread across his face. “That’d be good,”

_ This is weird _ , Spot thought.  _ This is super weird _ . The last time he had seen Race, they had made out in a darkened mental hospital, he was entirely unsure how to deal with seeing him now, and he didn’t like feeling stupid. “I’ll, uh...I’ll text you?”

Race nodded. “Yeah, cool.”

Spot blinked a couple times, fully intending to move his feet. There was something else he wanted to say to Race, but he had no idea what it was.

“So uh...” Race had approximately the same look on his face as he continued to hesitate in the doorway.

Everyone else had gone—even Mrs. McNamera had disappeared down the hallway—and the tension between them bordered on physically painful.

“We should—...” Spot began, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the cafeteria.

Race nodded sharply, in that way one does to slightly jostle themselves back to reality. “Right, lunch.” He shifted out of the doorway, but didn’t immediately take off down the hall.

Spot realized that the only way this was going to work was if they walked together. “Right. Okay...”

Race ran a hand awkwardly through his hair, leaving it all fluffed out and poofy. “What did I miss?”

“Not much,” Spot told him honestly as they started off down the hall. “It’s school.”

Race let out an amused breath. “Fair.”

Spot glanced sideways at him. He looked a lot better than he had in the hospital—not quite the grease fire of a human being he was normally, but better. He needed a haircut. His hair kept falling in his eyes. He had brushed it back at least three times since they’d started talking. He looked like a fucking fairy, and not even the metaphorical kind that he actually was. It was weirdly charming.

“How’s the project going?” Race asked.

“Good,” Spot nodded. “I found some more sources, turned in the second draft...”

“Cool, thanks for—” Race gestured vaguely at the project that wasn’t a tangible thing.

Spot scoffed. “What, you thought I was just gonna fail because you got locked up?”

Race snorted, amused. “Well yeah, duh.”

“Not a chance,” Spot shot back as they entered the cafeteria. He hesitated. This was the part where they split up, but he didn’t see his own friends just yet. He saw Jack and Albert sitting at their usual table—when had he paid enough attention to know Race’s usual table?—and they had clearly noticed when the two of them walked in.

“D’you wanna...” Race trailed off as he turned his gaze towards his friends. “Eh, nah, never mind.”

That stung more than Spot wanted to admit, and he was a little taken back. He wasn’t sure why he expected...well, actually he did. He’d saved Race’s life, sort of twice. He’d visited him in the hospital. He’d been making a goddamn effort, but whatever. Of course, Race wouldn’t. He never did.

“Right,” Spot said tightly. “Let me know when you’re free to work on the project.” He turned to walk away.

“Hey.”

Spot frowned back at Race. “Hm?”

Race opened his mouth to say something but stopped, looking rather embarrassed. There was a pause just long enough to make it clear that Race had no idea what he wanted to say, but spoke anyway. “Thanks...”

“For what?”

“Everything, I guess,” he answered lamely.

Spot let out a huff of air, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh and a scoff. “Yeah, sure.”

“Text me later?” As soon as the words were out of Race’s mouth, a flush spread across his cheeks and he dropped his gaze, pressing his lips tight together as if he could have trapped the words in his mouth, but was just a bit too late.

“Um.” Okay, color Spot confused, but... “Yeah, I will.”

Race nodded a bit, still staring resolutely at the floor. “Cool...”

Spot scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Hey, maybe we can,” he chuckled, “set something on fire sometime.”

Race’s eyes darted up to meet his, and a little grin twisted up one corner of his mouth. “See if we can get  _ you _ stabbed, this time.”

Spot narrowed his eyes playfully. “S’that a threat?”

“If if you want it to be,” Race quipped.

Spot shook his head. He didn’t get Race at all. “I’ll text you, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” An almost blinding smile darted across Race’s face, and then he turned away and headed towards his friends.

Spot watched him go for a moment before heading the other direction in search of Hot Shot.

* * *

Spot: Hey

Spot: Did you want to talk about the project or?

Race: Yeah sure where are we at with it?

Spot: I mean it’s mostly done, we just need to edit some more before the final draft. I’ll email you Mrs. McNamera’s comments on the draft I turned in

Race: Sure

Race: Or we could go over it together

Race: If you want

Spot: Sure, whatever you want

Race: Oh god eww

Race: Not you too

Spot: ?

Race: Don’t be all weird about it

Spot: wtf are you talking about I just agreed with you

Race: Everyone’s being super weird and like careful 

Race: It sucks

Spot: Well then I’m glad to tell you   
I’m not being weird and careful   
I just don’t give a fuck

Spot: Do you want to meet up or not?

Race: lol

Race: Yeah though it’d have to be at my house

Spot: Why?

Race: Like I said

Race: Everyone’s being super weird and careful

Race: I’ve got like

Race: Super extra curfew and I’m not allowed to go anywhere by myself

Spot: Fuck man your parents don’t like me

Race: Yeah not so much

Race: We talked about it a bit ago and they said I can only do study sessions if it’s here and at least one of them is home

Spot: Well shit I don’t have a life here, so just tell me when I guess.

Race: You don’t have a life?

Spot: I’m literally here for one year for school I’m not getting comfortable

Race: Oh yeah philly and all that

Spot: yeah

Race: didn’t you say you hated philly?

Spot: Yeah I do

Race: then why are you going back?

Spot: Who said I was going back?

Race: you said you’re only here for a year

Spot: ah yes the two locations Philadelphia and New York  that’s it that’s all there is

Race: oh shut up

Spot: So the project

Race: Right

Race: I could ask my folks if you can come over later?

* * *

Spot let out a long, heavy breath as he parked his car on the street in front of the Higgins’ house. He didn’t want to be there, but he wanted a good grade on the project more than he didn’t want to face Race’s parents. Honestly though, at this point, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins owed him big time. They could all suck it up.

Spot made his way up to the front door and knocked before tucking his hands back into his coat pockets. It was early November, and it was fucking cold. He could see his breath in the glow from the porch light.

The door opened before too long, and thankfully it was Race. “Hey man,” he greeted Spot with a brief nod.

“Hey,” Spot replied simply.

Race had been different in the hospital—weird, quieter, almost meek. He had talked less—less being anything other than loud and constant—and when he did, there was hardly any of his usual snark and attitude. It was weird then, and it was weirder now. With the normal world as a backdrop, rather than a dingy hospital, Race was even more glaringly  _ wrong _ . He seemed...dimmer, less. Like a candle with a short wick, still burning, but barely. And, of course, with the bright normalcy of the outside world, that flame was even harder to see.

The blonde candle in question stepped aside, pulling the door wider and gesturing for Spot to come in.

Spot stepped past him and immediately felt out of place in the Higgins’ home. It was very much a magazine suburban home, except it actually looked lived in. All the living room chairs and the couch matched, and there was a fluffy blanket flumped carelessly over the back of the couch, but there was also a barely organized pile of video games in the corner next to the TV and a few controllers, and there was an abandoned, half-full mug sitting on the coffee table. It was a lot nicer that Aunt Beth’s tiny, barren house.

Race gestured vaguely around the living room. “Make yourself at home.” There was a brief pause, and then he continued. “D’you want like, a drink or anything?”

Hearing Race being almost cordial was  _ wildly _ uncomfortable, like seeing an owl swimming—technically possible, but not something you ever expect to see

“Uh, nah, I’m good.” Spot still didn’t entirely trust Race not to poison him.

Race nodded, looking pretty uncomfortable himself. “So...”

Spot dragged his fingers through his hair, grimacing. Could this be any more awkward? “You got a table or something?”

“Yeah, in the kitchen.” Race gestured further into the house. “Hang on, I gotta get my laptop.”

He headed for the stairs, which left Spot standing alone in the living room, lips pressed together in displeased resignation to his fate. Apparently, though, this  _ could _ be more awkward, because just then, Mrs. Higgins walked into the room. Spot bit his tongue to hold back an audible groan. Maybe, if he held really still, she wouldn’t notice him.

“Oh, hello Sean.”

Damn it.

He forced a smile. “Hi, Mrs. Higgins.”

She smiled tightly, hesitating for a second, like she was going to say something else, but she moved on and left the room. A few seconds later, Race came crashing back down the stairs with his laptop clutched under one arm. This haphazard entrance was the most Race-like thing Spot had seen since before the hospital. Spot raised an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, ready?” Race skimmed over his reaction, already moving towards the kitchen, so Spot shrugged and followed.

The kitchen was lovely and quite clean, with nicely whitewashed cabinets and some sort of ivy plant hanging in a suspended pot in a corner of the window that sat behind the sink. The dining room was attached directly to the kitchen, separated by two steps down that spread across the entirety of the open arch between the two. 

Race was already in the dining room, sitting with his legs crossed together on the seat of his chair. Spot started for the chair across from him, then grimaced as he realized that seating arrangement wouldn’t make any sense, since he didn’t have a computer of his own. Begrudgingly, he took the seat next to Race.

“Have you had a chance to look over it since...?”

“Uh, not really,” Race replied, fruitlessly shoving his hair back off his forehead.

“‘Kay, that’s fine. I can...show you what I changed?”

Race nodded, pushing his laptop towards Spot.

“I reworded some stuff in the intro, nothing big,” Spot told him, scrolling down the document. “I added the graphics from this study. I mean, they’re not super scientific or anything, but they summarize the point well.” Spot pointed out a couple images with cartoonish birds.

Race shifted closer to Spot so he could look at the screen as well. Spot was hyper-aware of this change in proximity—not bothered, just aware that Race had entered the danger zone for getting elbowed in the sternum, and he considered doing just that, seeing as his eyes were no longer capable of focusing on his computer screen.

“Fixed all our citations. That’s really it. I haven’t added the new sources I found yet.”

Race nodded, shifting back into his seat, but he was definitely still closer than he had been before. “Cool.”

“I sent you an email with the sources, and I printed a couple of them out for me, if maybe you wanted to read them.” Spot chanced a look back at Race.

Unfortunately, Race was looking at him, too. Worse, he had very pretty blue eyes, and he was less than a foot away.

“Uh,” Spot uttered, like a genius.

For a moment that felt way longer than it actually was, Race didn’t say anything, just looking at him with an expression Spot couldn’t quite read, and he didn’t particularly like that. Then, Mrs. Higgins walked into the kitchen, and Race boomeranged back into his chair so fast Spot was surprised he didn’t knock himself over.

“How many sources do we even need?” Race asked, eyes fixed on the screen.

Spot blinked a couple times to get the afterimage of Race’s eyes out of his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s a set number.”

Race nodded. “Cool, cool.”

“How’s the studying going?” Mrs. Higgins asked from the kitchen, and Race quickly turned his gaze to her.

“We’re doin’ good. Spot kept us on track while I was—...” He trailed off uncomfortably.

Mrs. Higgins nodded. “That’s good.”

“I didn’t do that much,” Spot muttered, shifting in his seat as if that’s what was so uncomfortable.

Race shrugged in a dismissive sort of way. “Either way.”

Mrs. Higgins nodded again. “Let me know if you boys need anything.” This was very clearly directed at Race, rather than both of them, and the boy nodded.

“Sure. Thanks, Mom.”

Mrs. Higgins left the kitchen, and Spot couldn’t help but chuckle.

Race looked towards him again. “What?”

“She  _ hates _ me,” Spot observed with a low level of amusement. “Like, shit.”

Race looked towards the kitchen where his mom had just left through the open archway into the hall. “I dunno if she  _ hates _ you...”

“She hates me.”

“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that. You  _ did _ haul my ass off a bridge, and then into a hospital, so like...” He shrugged.

“I’ve also punched you a couple times,” Spot pointed out, smirking.

“Eh, I probably deserved it.”

“Nah,” he sighed. “I mean, maybe, but I still should’t’a done it.”

Race let out a quiet snort of laughter. “Yeah, prob’ly not.”

“I’ll, uh...not do that again.” Spot decided it as he said it.

Race stared at him for a second with another irritatingly unreadable expression, and then he snorted again, pressing his lips together in a fruitless attempt to hold down a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

Spot frowned. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Race snickered, turning his attention towards the laptop again. There was a little grin teasing at the corner of his mouth, and it was rather distracting.

Spot rolled his eyes. “Okay, asshole, I’m starting to think you  _ wanna _ get hit.”

Race looked up at him very briefly and—was that a wink!?—then pulled the laptop back towards him and began clicking through citations to check out the sources.

Spot sputtered helplessly. What the fuck? What the—

“I don’t think we need any more sources. Looks like you got that taken care of.” Race said, carrying on plainly.

Spot tried to swallow, but his mouth was very dry. “Okay, cool. I guess we should just...start working through them.”

Race nodded, already scrolling through the first article. After a moment he paused to look at Spot. “You gonna read too, or...?”

“Yeah.” Spot pulled one of the printed articles out of his backpack, along with a pencil and a highlighter, out of his backpack. He could have moved to the much more intuitive place across the table, but he didn’t.

“Lemme know if you find anything good, I can make us a notes sheet or whatever,” Race said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Spot, likewise, locked his gaze on the papers in front of him.

For the few quiet minutes that followed, he scanned what might as well have been ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, for the amount he actually processed. His awareness kept drifting to his project partner—every time he shifted to get more comfortable, the way he breathed fast but gently, the occasional tap of his foot to a rhythm Spot couldn’t hear. It wasn’t the proximity itself, Spot realized—he’d been this close to Race before, and much closer—it was the complete lack of understanding of their current situation (‘Relationship’ was probably a more accurate word, but it was suddenly a very big word). They needed to talk. If they were going to survive the semester, they really needed to talk.


	34. One of Several Uses a High School Boy Has for a Stairwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race has a weird-ass day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I twisted my ankle and am currently on crutches and uh...fuck this.

Tuesday was Race’s first day back at dance, and dear god was he happy to be back. He was greeted, of course, with a barrage of questions and affection, but as soon as class started, everything was normal again. Once he had the combination down, Race let his eyes slowly close, and he continued his repetitions blind. To be moving his body freely and properly, letting his thoughts settle into muddy quiet as the music washed over him, it was nigh blissful.

Until he ran into the mirror.

There were a few muffled giggles as the class continued, and Tommy Boy snickered as he carried through his steps pretty much perfectly. As always, a mild contest sparked between the two of them, and Race decided to dance with his eyes open for the rest of class.

After an hour and fifteen minutes of ballet, and another hour of body movements and isolations, Race and his motley crew headed out to happily loiter in the parking lot behind the studio. Dropping his dance bag on the sidewalk next to him, Race plopped down to sit on the curb, stretching one of his long legs out in front of him. He shifted so he could reach the back pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a rather squished pack of cigarettes. He hadn’t been smoking again long enough to go through withdrawal in the two weeks he was in the hospital, but he had been unpleasantly aware of the lack of nicotine in his system.

Jojo scrunched up his nose when he saw the cigarettes, but made no audible comment. “So, how’s freedom?” he asked instead.

Race settled a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and took a drag before letting out a huffy puff of smoke. “A hell of a lot better than the other options.”

The other guys nodded, and the friends lapsed into comfortable silence for a few minutes. It was eventually broken by Finch.

“Have you guys gotten accepted into any colleges, yet? I mean, not you.” He gestured at Tommy Boy.

Tommy Boy let out a wordless, indignant protest.

“Relax, you’re a child,” Jojo said, which just got him pouting harder.

“I haven’t applied to any yet,” Race answered.

Jojo and Finch  _ and _ Tommy Boy all looked at him in various combinations of shock, confusion, and horror.

“It’s...November of senior year, dude,” Jojo pointed out. “You gotta get on that.”

Race just shrugged, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Eh, it’ll happen.”

“Not if you don’t  _ do it _ , ” Finch argued, snatching his cigarette.

“Hey!” Race whined. “I’ll get to it, I just been a bit preoccupied lately.”

“Better get to it soon, ‘nless you’re taking a gap year or somethin’.”

Race muttered nonsense and huffed. He had honestly forgotten that he’d be graduating come spring, there was so much other stuff going on. “I’m gonna figure it out, chill.”

Finch shrugged. “Your problem.”

“Oh, lay off ‘im,” Jojo chided, slapping Finch lightly on the shoulder. “He’s having a rough year.”

“Are you gonna give that back or should I just get a new one?” Race asked Finch, nodding towards the still smoldering cigarette he had stolen from him.

Finch rolled his eyes and handed it back.

“Thank you,” Race said huffily as he replaced the cigarette in its rightful spot in the corner of his mouth. There was quiet for another moment before he spoke again. “Things are really weird this year...”

“Yeah, you’re having a  _ time _ ,” Tommy Boy observed, somewhat thoughtfully.

“Yeah, it’s bullshit. First Spot fucking Conlon rises from the dead to ruin AP bio, then I nearly died, like, twice, and now I literally owe the bastard my life.” Race took another drag on his cigarette, frowning slightly as he exhaled. “And he has the  _ audacity _ to be completely gorgeous. No good piece of shit...” He trailed off into grumbles as he finished his sentence.

His friends looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Race looked between them indignantly. “What? Shut up!”

“You are obsessed!” Finch laughed.

“I am  _ not!  _ It’s not my fault he’s everywhere!”

Jojo smiled knowingly. “But you’re not really mad about that, are you?”

Race glared at him. “I mean he’s not  _ so _ awful, but it’s annoying!”

Jojo raised an eyebrow, and Tommy Boy snickered.

Race glared harder, hoping the others wouldn’t notice the slight, pink flush that had spread across his cheeks. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Racer’s got a cruuush,” Finch jeered, poking him in the ribs.

“Shut up no I don’t!” Race whined as he blushed harder, contorting his torso strangely to the side to try and escape Finch’s pokes without actually moving.

Tommy Boy placed a hand on his shoulder. “The first step is admitting that you have a problem.”

Race knocked his hand away, but there was no aggression in his actions. “OhmygodIdon’t,” Race blustered, beginning to realize that, in fact, he very much did have a problem.

“Oh yeah?” Finch folded his arms. “How’s school, Race?”

Race frowned, mildly perplexed. “It’s fine, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I was a little late getting to the lunch room yesterday—had to go to the bathroom after class, you know how it is—and—”

Race rolled his eyes. “We had a conversation, big whoop. We’re project partners.”

Finch grinned. “I didn’t even say what I was talking about.”

“Ohhhhh, I hate you,” Race grumbled, and the others started to laugh again.

“Okay, okay, but really,” Jojo managed through his laughter. “Hasn’t this guy, like, broken your face before?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Race replied, fidgeting with his cigarette.

“So it’s probably not the best idea...”

Race shrugged. “We were kids, people change. And the more recent stuff...” he winced a bit sheepishly. “I sorta started it most of the times...maybe all of the times...”

“Yeah, he fucked you up, though.”

Finch snorted. “Yeah, he  _ fucked him up _ , alright.”

Race groaned, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Things are weird. It’s not my fault.”

“It is distinctly your fault,” Tommy Boy replied, and Race huffed poutily.

Jojo reprimanded them both. “Shut up, I’m being serious.”

“I’m fine Jojo, it’s just a weird situation,” Race said, finally sounding properly sincere.

Finch scrunched up his face in confusion. “Weird how?”

Race wriggled uncomfortably and took a long pull from his cigarette to stall. Eventually, he had to exhale, and started talking as he did so. “I mean you guys know about the whole childhood bullying thing, and then he came back and things were weird but it was fine. An’ then the study session when he was talking all sortsa shit about my situation, but turns out he didn’t actually know? Like it was just a coincidence that he chose and said those things,” Race huffed, “but by the time I figured that out, it was kinda too late.” He gestured vaguely at nothing. “And y’know, we yelled and fought and got in trouble and whatever.” Race bent one of his legs to place the toe of his shoe on the asphalt and started twisting it back and forth. He was quiet for a beat before continuing. “An’ the whole bridge thing happened, and like, from that point he started being nice? Well, not nice, the nice is newer, but he wasn’t being the unholy child of Satan and a bullfrog.” His friends burst into laughter at his choice of words, but Race carried on. “And we were hanging out, and there was the whole stabbing bit.” He frowned. “Like, straight up, I would’ve died if he wasn’t there...”

Everything got real quiet, then.

Race shifted around, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable sitting on the curb. “Did I tell you guys he came to visit me?”

“No?” Tommy Boy answered.

Race grunted in acknowledgement and ground out his cigarette on the concrete next to him. “Yeah, twice. First time he just showed up outta nowhere, and we just, like, sat and talked—like, real talk, not weird awkward shit.” Race barely even noticed the tiny smile pricking at the corners of his mouth. “The other time, he ditched homecoming.”

Jojo frowned. “I’m pretty sure I saw him there.”

Race shrugged. “He showed up a bit after ten o’clock, even convinced the staff to let him in after hours! So I guess he ditched partway through...unless he has a secret, super hot twin...”

Finch snickered. “Was he hotter than usual?”

Race opened his eyes a bit wider for a moment in that way one does when indicating a ridiculous amount of whatever. “Y’know how everyone’s always hotter when they’re wearing whatever isn’t their usual?”

His friends just kinda shrugged.

“Shut up, it's a thing.” Race pouted briefly. “But that’s not the point, anyway. The point is he’s started being like, legit actually nice.”

“So he wants to bang you again,” Finch said.

“That seems to be the general consensus.”

“So are you gonna do it?” Tommy Boy asked.

Race thought about it for a moment. He was much less than opposed to the idea of sleeping with Spot again, but things were complicated now. There was such a weird energy between them, and Race couldn’t figure out if Spot actually liked him or not. Nonetheless, he shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“Just be careful?” Jojo sat up a little straighter. “Seriously, be careful. He could snap you like a twig.”

“I know, I will,” Race assured him, having no intention whatsoever to be careful. He was never careful with anything.

Jojo sighed, seeing right through him. “Race, everyone knows you’re crazy impulsive, and...and that’s fine, we’ll always look out for you.”

“Yeah,” Tommy Boy chimed in, “but you can’t be fuckin’  _ stupid _ .”

Race pressed his lips tightly together, failing to squash down a shit eating grin. “He’s actually pretty smart.”

Tommy Boy frowned. “I don’t get it.”

Finch facepalmed so hard, and Race couldn’t help it at this point and burst into laughter.

“You used ‘fucking’ as an adjective, and he used it as a verb,” Jojo tried to explain, but this only seemed to confuse the poor baby sophomore further.

Race quickly quieted into giggles. “Plus, it’s a well established fact that I’m an idiot, so either way.”

“Have you tried...I don’t know...talking to him?” Jojo suggested.

“Uhh...sorta? Not like, about whatever the fuck is going on, but like, my situation, I guess? My family and stuff.”

“Maybe you should.”

* * *

Spot’s History test could have gone better, he thought. It wasn’t his best subject, never had been, and the stipulation of ‘get good grades or go back to Philly’ was stressing him out more than he cared to admit. He doubted Aunt Beth would kick him out for the grades, as long as he was  _ trying _ , but still, Aunt Beth’s terms were more than reasonable, so he figured he could meet them. With a sigh, he shoved his books back in his locker and slammed it shut with a resounding crash.

Suddenly, there was Race, appearing out of nowhere like a monster in a cheap horror film when the protagonist shuts the medicine cabinet. “Hey, so I was wondering—”

“ _ Jesus fuck _ .” Spot jolted, crashing into the wall of lockers.

Race’s sentence stumbled to a halt and was replaced with a bit of a breathy chuckle, amused and surprised by Spot’s reaction. “Shit, sorry, I thought you saw me.”

Spot took a deep breath, leaning his head back against the lockers. “I  _ clearly _ did not.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know?” Race grumbled. “I didn’t sneak up on you, I was just walking.”

Spot burst out laughing in spite of himself, dragging both his palms down his face. Racetrack Higgins was going to be the death of him. “What do you want, Race?”

Race pushed his fingers through his hair, suddenly awkward. “I was wondering if you had a second to talk...?”

Spot glanced down the hallway that was quickly emptying as students made their was to class. They were probably going to be late to their next classes, but...he  _ had _ wanted to talk to Race...

“Yeah, sure,” he said, pushing off the lockers.

Race nodded. “Cool, d’you wanna...?” He gestured vaguely towards the double doors at the end of the hall that opened into the stairwell.

Spot shrugged and started that way. How convenient that Race would also want to talk to him. He wondered if Race wanted to talk to him for the same reason he wanted to talk to Race, and he wasn’t sure which answer he would prefer. Race followed, not quite next to him. Once they got to the stairwell, Race dropped his backpack in a corner and leaned back on the wall, still looking a bit uncomfortable. 

Spot dropped his backpack on the first step and turned to face him. “So...”

Race let out a breath, frowning slightly, and then looked at Spot. “What are we doing?”

“What do you mean?” Spot asked. He thought he knew, but they were in for a bad time if they didn’t start on the same page.

Race gestured vaguely between them. “All this.”

“Us,” Spot clarified as dread about this inevitable conversation began to seep in. You couldn’t just leave senior homecoming for a guy you used to hate and expect there to not be questions. Spot, for his part, had a lot of questions.

After a second, Race nodded, affirming Spot’s not-quite-question.

Spot exhaled roughly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I don’ know, Race, but it probably ain’t good.”

Race frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever we got goin’ on,” Spot said, gritting his teeth. “It’s trouble.”

As if to prove his point, the bell rang, making them officially late for class.

Race huffed. “Well yeah, no shit, but what do we even have going on? I don’t get it—you said so many times you hated me and wanted me to go die or whatever, but then you came to visit me  _ twice? _ ” He briefly tossed his hands up, exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, you ditched homecoming for a psych ward.”

“Well, maybe I’m not the devil, after all,” Spot snapped, voice raising slightly.

Race sputtered. “What?”

“Have you ever considered that maybe I am actually a good person!?”

“Wh— that’s beside the point!”

Spot shook his head, laughing bitterly. He didn’t know when he started caring what Race thought of him, but lo and behold, he cared. “Then what is the point?”

Race sputtered again for a moment. “All the other shit!” He pushed off the wall to step slightly closer as he continued rather aggressively. “One second you’re telling me to kill myself, and then you got me up against a wall, and yeah that’s damn confusing, but the rest of it? Why did you keep coming to see me? Why did you  _ care? _ ”

“Trust me, asshole,” Spot growled, grabbing the front of Race’s shirt, “I’m just as lost as you are.” He yanked him forward into a bruising kiss.

Race half tripped, stumbling against Spot as he was pulled off balance, and his surprised yelp was cut short by Spot’s mouth on his. Seemingly acting on instinct, he got his hands between them and pushed back against Spot’s chest, breaking the kiss. A bright flush had spread across his cheeks, and for a second they just stared at each other, both breathing a touch heavier than normal. But before Spot had a chance to even think, let alone worry, Race wound his fingers into the front of his shirt, and now he was the one pulled off balance as the taller boy all but dragged him off his feet to crash their lips together. Spot managed to back up onto the first step, which made them approximately equal heights, and he wound one hand into Race’s hair and tugged his head lightly to the side to get a better angle. Race had nice lips and a very nice mouth, which of course were things Spot knew already, but they were still at the forefront of his mind at that moment.

Race gasped softly against Spot’s lips as he got a firmer grip in his hair, perfectly willing to be directed, and kissed him almost desperately. He made all these quiet, breathy noises when they kissed, and it  _ did things _ to Spot. Who authorized this dumbass to be so sexy?

Spot’s hands fell to either side of Race’s jaw, and he pulled the other boy off. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re pretty.” He immediately dropped his head and began trailing messy kisses on what little of Race’s collarbone was left exposed by his t-shirt.

Race let out a small, breathy giggle as he slid his hands down Spot’s sides to wind them into the hem of his shirt. “Yeah, you’ve said,”

Spot growled. “Stop that.”

Race shivered briefly. “Stop what?”

“Being adorable. S’fuckin’ annoying.”

Race half choked on a laugh. “ _ What? _ ”

“ _ Shut _ ,” Spot began intensely as he raised his head again, “your  _ whore mouth _ ,” and slammed his lips on Race’s again.

Race met him eagerly, kissing him like he needed it to breath. Spot jolted a tiny bit, surprised as he felt Race’s fingers slip under his shirt and run feather light over his skin, just above his hips. 

He groaned and murmured against Race’s lips, “This is gonna be a thing now, right?”

Rather than answering, Race hooked his fingers into the waistband of Spot’s jeans and yanked him closer, at the same time ducking down to press a hard kiss into the base of his neck.

Spot huffed. “Race.”

Ignoring him completely, Race moved to trail harsh kisses up his neck, and settled just beneath the corner of his jaw, at which point he opened his mouth a bit wider to oh so gently graze Spot’s skin with his teeth.

Spot shuddered. “ _ Race _ .”

And he bit down harder.

Spot grabbed his hair again and pulled him back. “Bitch?”

Race gasped, not quite moaning, and his breath stuttered. Spot froze for a moment, because holy shit that was hot, and all his blood was rushing to the wrong place, and he suddenly didn’t care about anything in this world except seeing how many pretty noises he could get out of Race.

* * *

Walking to AP Bio with Spot, after spending the whole of second period making out in a stairwell, was a bit awkward. Neither seemed to really have anything to say, so they mostly just ignored each other. There was a brief, awkward struggle in the doorway as they both stopped to let the other go first, then both tried to go, and then both stopped again. They parted ways without so much as a look between them as Spot took his seat near the front, and Race headed further back to plop down next to Albert.

Albert was staring at him with a very blank look on his face, and just as Race frowned and opened his mouth to ask what was up, Albert deadpanned, “You dumb slut.”

Race sputtered for what must have been the hundredth time that weird-ass day. “What!?”

“Don’t even act like something did not just happen between you and mini Satan over there,  _ again _ .”

Race felt his cheeks heat up and he cast around wildly for some distraction or denial. “I just wanted to talk—figure out what the fuck is even going on!”

“Uhuh. And what did you find out?”

He knew he was blushing, and he was less than thrilled. “That Spot’s easily distracted,” he grumbled.

Albert snickered. “Oh yeah? And what about you?”

“I’m a pretty good distraction.”

“I’m texting Jack right now.” Albert pulled his phone out of his pocket so fast a Capri-Sun fell out with it and skidded across the floor.

Race started to whine but choked and burst into laughter instead. “Dude what the fuck, how did you even fit that in your pocket?”

“ _ Shh _ .”

“It’s like you’re connected to some extra-dimensional Capri-Sun plane.”

Race’s phone buzzed in his backpack. He reached down to fish around in his bag, which he’d dropped by his feet under his desk, and pulled out his phone to glance absently at the screen. He had a message from Jack.

“ _ What did you do??? _ ”

Race groaned, dragging his free hand down his face.

“ _ I didn’t do anything _ ”

“Anthony.” When had Mrs. McNamera gotten there? “Put your phone away, please, it’s time to start class.

“Sorry, Mrs. McNamera,” he answered, dropping his phone back into his bag and shooting a brief scowl at Albert.

Albert just shrugged, smirking.

“Alright, everyone,” Mrs. McNamera began, “get out your textbooks and open them to chapter seven.”

* * *

After dinner, Mrs. Higgins drove Race to youth group, and even though he knew it was because they were worried and wanted to make sure he was safe, each reminder that his parents didn’t trust him like they used to still stung. He very much looked forward to getting inside, where he had only missed one meeting, and no one but Elmer and probably Buttons knew he’d been gone.

As he had hoped, there was no big reaction or questions about where he’d been. Most everyone misses youth group every now and then. Besides an extra gentle smile from Buttons, there was no indication at youth group that Race had ever been in the hospital. Race was amused to see that, as Elmer promised, Princess Sarah Louison was nowhere to be seen. Race was almost disappointed. Of course it was nice that everyone was being normal, and not treating him like some baby bird that had fallen out of its nest, but, with the lack of drama now that Sarah Louison was gone, it was a bit boring, especially considering the topic of the night was the pros and cons of courtship versus those of dating. The most amusing part of the night was discovering that, while he was gone, something had happened to get the room segregated with boys one one side and girls on the other, and he got the distinct feeling it had to do with Elmer. Despite the rather long winded explanation, by the end of the night Race still didn’t understand the difference between courtship and dating, other than one sounded a lot more boring and complicated.

After the evening’s game of using rubber bands to shoot marshmallows at each other—no one was sure if you were supposed to dodge or catch them in your mouth—the room started to empty as everyone headed home.

Race was mildly surprised when Buttons asked him to wait for a minute. “Uh, yeah sure...” Race hung back while the others went on upstairs, and Elmer clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. Race wasn’t sure what Buttons wanted, maybe to catch him up on what he missed while he was gone?

Once everyone else had made their way back up the stairs, Buttons took a seat in one of the many chairs present. “How are you doing, Race?”

Race ran a hand awkwardly through his hair, not so much uncomfortable as just slightly off guard. “Uh, fine I guess? How are you, Buttons?”

“I’m good, Race.” Buttons leaned forward, towards him. “I want you to know that I don’t know what happened. I got the bare minimum, and that’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything. I just want you to know that I’m here for you.”

“Oh.” Hesupposed it made sense that someone would’ve told Buttons. “Right, thanks.” There was a moment of awkward silence before Race spoke again. “Yeah, it’s all pretty messed up, I guess, but I’m alright.”

“Good, I’m glad you’re alright.” Buttons offered him a wry smile. “It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

Race huffed quietly. “If you say so.”

Buttons shrugged. “My husband did inpatient, for a while.”

Race’s eyebrows went up in mildly surprised interest. “Really?”

Buttons nodded.

“What for?” Race cringed, rethinking his question. “Sorry, that’s rude, never mind.

“It’s fine,” Buttons said, waving the question away. “The point is that a lot of people do it, Race.”

Race shrugged, digging his hands into his pockets. “I guess...”

There was a moment’s silence, then Buttons stood up. “I won’t keep you. I’m sure you need to get home.”

Race nodded. “Yeah, thanks Buttons.”

Yes, it had been a really weird-ass day.


	35. Cupcakes and Sadness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s November 8th.

Even though he’d gotten home almost a week ago, Race still felt a bit ‘off’—just a tiny bit out of sync with the rest of the world—so on Friday, when he asked a classmate what the date was, he was caught completely off guard. Race hardly noticed the rest of the day going by, feeling very much like a helium balloon that was only barely tethered to the ground on a flimsy string, as his thoughts were fuzzily occupied elsewhere. He took the bus home, as he still wasn’t trusted driving himself places yet, and the cold, scattered rain left thematically appropriate trails down the windows as he stared blankly out at the fast moving road beneath them. Once the bus stopped at the end of his street, Race walked the rest of the way home, carrying his backpack over his head to at least moderately shield himself from the drizzling sky.

He fumbled briefly with his keys at the front door, nearly dropping them, before he turned the handle and stepped inside, dropping his backpack by the door, and kicking his now rather soggy shoes towards the hall closet.

“Hey, Mom?” Race called out, heading towards the kitchen.

“Yes, Tony?” she called, distinctly not from the kitchen, but from the office.

Race changed course and came to a stop in the office doorway. “It’s November eighth...” he said quietly.

Mrs. Higgins was already on her way to hug him. “I know.”

Race leaned into her embrace, staring blankly past her. “I guess I lost track...” he mumbled against her shoulder.

“It’s okay.” She rubbed his back. “Do you want to go alone?”

“Can I?”

“Sure, baby.”

Race hugged her tighter for a moment before going to put his shoes on again, then grabbed his keys off the birdhouse shaped hook by the door as he went. First, he drove to the Walmart a few blocks away and scoured through the bakery section to find red velvet cupcakes. It was about thirty minutes to drive to Legacy Hill, and—as always—Race made the trip in silence. Once he turned down the long driveway, passing through the high, always open, wrought iron gates, it occurred to him too late that he hadn’t grabbed an umbrella on his way out the door. It wasn’t raining that hard, anyway.

Legacy Hill was pretty big, so there were a few parking lots that branched off the driveway here and there, rather than one main, central one. Race made his way to the second lot on the left and pulled his car to a stop in one of the many empty spots. There weren’t a whole lot of other cars; it wasn’t exactly visiting weather, but Race preferred it quiet, anyway.

He unbuckled and got out of the car, not bothering to lock it as he grabbed the plastic box of cupcakes and hip-checked the door shut behind him. It always took a second longer and a deep breath to step off the asphalt and onto the well manicured—though currently rather squishy—grass. Race made his way across the lawn, feeling a familiar sinking in his stomach with each step, until he came to a stop in front of an upright slab of granite so plain it was a wonder that he could recognize it without needing to see the inscription on the front.

_ In Loving Memory Of _ _   
_ _ Vincent Giovanni Folliero _ _   
_ _ November 8 1983  _ —  _ March 12 2007 _

For a moment, Race just stood and stared, no longer feeling the intermittent raindrops hitting his skin, or the tears that had now joined them. Then, he sat down in front of the headstone, paying no mind to the cold wetness of the ground under him, and pushed a finger through the label that sealed the box of cupcakes so he could pull it open. He set the box down next to him and pulled out two cupcakes, one of which he set down at the base of the headstone, and the other he held onto.

“Happy birthday, Dad…”

* * *

Race got home around six-forty-five, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it to balance as he pulled his soaked shoes off one at a time. “Mom?” he called, shaking his head once, quickly, to knock his wet curls out of his eyes. “Can you bring me a towel? I don’t wanna drip all over the living room.”

“Of course, sweetie!” He heard footsteps receding as his mother moved through the house, and she soon returned with a plush, blue towel from the master bathroom.

“Thanks,” Race took the towel and began to dry himself off, at least to the point where he could get to his room without leaving a small river behind him.

Mrs. Higgins kissed his forehead and headed back towards the office. “Your father and I were thinking pasta for dinner. Does that work for you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Race answered automatically, not really processing what she’d said for another second. He went upstairs to change, grabbing a pair of grey sweatpants and a blue T-shirt before dropping his wet clothes into the hamper in the bathroom and heading back downstairs.

“Why don’t you spend some time with him? I can take care of dinner,” he heard his mom say.

His dad sighed quietly. “I think he’d rather have you, today.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Race briefly collapsed his supporting leg, more dropping off the last step than stepping, and turned into the hallway towards the kitchen.

He knew that his dad was a bit of a sore subject for his dad...meaning it kind of bothered Mr. Higgins that he wasn’t Race’s only dad. Mrs. Higgins was the only mother he’d ever had, considering how his birth mother ran the second she could, but he remembered his father. He’d always remember his father.

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins both looked up at him and smiled when he walked in.

“Hey, Dad,” Race greeted him.

“Hey, bud. How’s it going?”

He shrugged noncommittally. Not good, obviously; Race still felt like he’d just come home from the Refuge, and everything was out of whack enough that he’d almost entirely glossed over his father’s birthday. “‘S alright,” he answered lamely.

Mr. Higgins lightly cuffed him on the shoulder. “How was school, today?”

“It was fine, just school.” Race shrugged again. “Nothing important.” 

At least, nothing that Mr. Higgins needed to know about. After the event in the stairwell on Wednesday, Race and Spot hadn’t really spoken. The project was basically done, and they were back to normal lectures in AP Bio, so there was no forced interaction. However, there had been a pretty constant volley of heavy glances between them whenever they were in any sort of proximity. Being wildly attracted to and distracted by a really hot guy wasn’t any sort of new thing for Race, what  _ was _ new was the warmth that would bubble in his chest whenever he noticed Spot looking at him. It wasn’t anything like the heavy coil of heat he’d feel in the bottom of his stomach when he remembered what Spot’s mouth tasted like, or how his hands felt on his body. He was controlling, maybe even a little harsh, but Race  _ liked _ it.

There was no need to ruin Mr. Higgins’ evening with those details, however, so Race stuck with ‘just school’.

“Have you been able to catch up in all your classes?” Mr. Higgins asked.

Race nodded. “I’m one ‘a those ‘gifted kids’, remember?”

Mr. Higgins chuckled. “You sure are.”

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins set about making the pasta, dragging Race into a debate about what kind of sauce they should have. Race refused to have an opinion, knowing if he did they’d both just agree with him. Rather, he added arguments for and against both of their choices until they ended up deciding on something entirely different. It had been a tradition for several years to make some sort of Italian food on November eighth. It was just another way for Race to feel connected to his biological father, and even though the Higgins’ Italian cooking couldn’t compare to what little Race remembered from his early childhood, they tried.

After dinner, Race went upstairs to knock out his homework and of course got distracted by a myriad of things, so it took three times longer than actually necessary. He tried to keep himself occupied for the rest of the evening to avoid letting his thoughts drift too far towards his father and the crash, but eventually everything was done, and it had gotten late. Nothing was really holding Race’s attention, so he changed into his pajamas—red pajama pants with little race cars on them, a gift from Mrs. Higgins a few Christmases ago—and flopped into bed.

Of course, laying alone in the dark is just about the worst place to hide from your own thoughts, and no matter how Race tried to distract himself, he was quickly losing ground. Lots of people complain and wish for an ‘interesting’ life, or adventure or some bullshit like that, but all Race had ever wanted was ‘normal’. He didn’t want to be the kid with the dead dad, the kid with all the crazy scars and trauma from a car crash, the adopted kid, the slutty ballet boy—well, actually, being a slutty ballet boy wasn’t too bad...

Race frequently wished that his father was still alive, but he always felt a little pang of guilt in his stomach whenever he followed that train of thought, because if his dad hadn’t died, he wouldn’t have been adopted by the Higginses. They were his family, and he loved them with all his heart. If he had been theirs,  _ really _ theirs, everything would be so much easier, so simple—no car crash, no PTSD, no years in the foster system. Of course this train of thought came with its own load of guilt, because he still loved his biological father, and wouldn’t ever want to give that up.

‘Normal’ had never been within Race’s grasp. Even if his father  _ was _ alive, or if he  _ had _ been born a Higgins, that still wouldn’t be enough. He still wouldn’t be ‘normal’. No matter what sort of past he had, no matter what he could change, Race would still be the slutty, gay, bipolar, ballet boy. And as cinematically rich as that character was, it still wasn’t entirely ‘normal’, even considering the growing inclusivity of the standard of ‘normal’.

He thought back to his little talk with Buttons, Wednesday night. Buttons had seemed less than concerned about Race’s trip to The Refuge. Maybe Race was more normal than he thought. But he didn’t get much further before this train of thought was derailed by a quiet knock on the door.

“Yeah?”

Mr. Higgins poked his head inside. “Hey, bud. You still awake?”

Race sat up in bed. “Yeah, what’s up dad?”

Mr. Higgins stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. “Just coming to check on you.” He walked over and sat down next to Race on the bed.

“Oh, yeah, I’m okay,” Race answered, not feeling at all okay.

“Do you need anything?”

Race shook his head. “I don’t think so...”

“Okay.” Mr. Higgins pressed a kiss to Race’s head. “I’ll let you sleep.”

“Hey, Dad?” Race caught his sleeve as he started to stand up.

“Hm?”

Race wasn’t really sure what he wanted to say, but he knew he didn’t want his dad to leave just then. “Were you close with your dad?”

Mr. Higgins smiled and sat back down. “I sure was, bud. Why do you ask?”

Race shrugged. “Dunno, just curious. D’you think he’d’a liked me?”

“Oh, Tony.” Mr. Higgins wrapped his arm around Race’s shoulder. “He would have  _ loved  _ you. You two would have been inseparable, I just know it.”

Race smiled a little sadly. “Wish I could’a met him.”

“Hey,” Mr. Higgins pulled him closer, “he’s with you, you know? Just because you never met face to face doesn’t mean he’s not your grandfather. He’s lookin’ out for you.”

Race nodded absently, shifting a bit to lean against Mr. Higgins. He tried to imagine what it might’ve been like, years from now, when he had children of his own, if his father hadn’t died. As much as he missed him, Race had trouble picturing any sort of life without the Higginses, and it was hard to picture his father as an older man. Vincent Folliero had died young, obviously, and Race had been so little when it all happened that, while he did distinctly remember his father, it was a bit abstract. In fact, as years passed, Race was finding it harder and harder to pull a clear picture of him into his mind. Unbidden and unwelcome, tears pushed at the corners of Race’s eyes, threatening to spill over.

Of course, Mr. Higgins noticed. “It’s okay to cry, Tony. It’s okay to be sad.”

“I’m sorry...” he mumbled. Race always felt a bit guilty about missing his dad—this was silly, of course, but as the Higginses had been so kind and loving right from the start and given him everything he could ever want or need, he felt like it was almost a betrayal to wish for any family that didn’t have them in it.

“Shh shh shh,” Mr. Higgins shushed him softly. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Yeah but I—...he—...and you—...” None of Race’s thoughts would sit still long enough for him to get a proper grip on any of them.

“You’re my son,” Mr. Higgins said, “and you’re Vincent’s son. There’s nothing more to it. You have three parents who love you.”

The words were comforting, but they weren’t true. He didn’t have three parents who loved him, he had two parents who loved him, a dead one, and one that had abandoned him before he even opened his eyes. Granted that’s technically twice as many as most kids, and he was lucky to have been chosen and taken home by such an amazing and loving couple as Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, but he didn’t feel particularly lucky. Race frequently struggled with feeling like he ‘owed’ the Higginses—for picking him, for caring for him, for feeding and clothing him and giving him shelter, for being his parents. He wondered if other kids felt that way about their biological parents, who had also chosen to have children, just in a more direct way than adoption. It seemed unfair to feel guilty for someone else’s decision, but there wasn’t really anything to be done about it.

They sat in companionable silence for awhile, until Race eventually began to drift towards sleep. Mr. Higgins placed a light kiss on Race’s forehead, and offered some sort of ‘goodnight’ that Race was already too far gone to really hear.


	36. Pyramids & Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s actually a Saturday.

“I found out that, supposedly, a human can easily fit a lightbulb in their mouth, but can’t get it back out without shattering it, and I’ve been having a  _ real _ hard time not putting a lightbulb in my mouth.”

Hannah blinked, pen hovering just over her notebook. “That’s not  _ quite _ what I meant. How are you doing, big picture stuff?”

Race pouted slightly, more interested in unleashing bullshit than talking about his state of mind, but he knew that even he, with his incredible aptitude for filibustering, couldn’t stall Hannah forever. He shrugged. “Honestly, pretty shitty.”

“You were in The Refuge?”

Race shoved himself back into the now unfortunately familiar corner of the couch in Hannah’s office. “Yeah, for two weeks.”

Hannah nodded slowly.

He sighed, reaching up to fidget with his hair. “I don’t know what you want me to say. It was awful.”

“Inpatient is rarely fun,” Hannah agreed, “but sometimes it’s necessary. I understand you’ve been on the higher dose of Lamictal for three weeks now, and the Wellbutrin for two. Is that correct?”

Race nodded. “Yeah, the doctor said I’ve improved on it, so...”

“Do you feel like you’ve improved on it?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, I haven’t had another ‘incident’,” he made quotes with his fingers, “since I got out, so I guess?”

“Did you normally have weekly ‘incidents’,” Hannah made quotes as well, “before?”

“It was pretty rapid fire for a bit there, with the thing with Spot, then the bridge thing, then the stabbing.” Another shrug.

“Well then, good start,” Hannah conceded, taking a few more notes.

“I guess…”

“And you’ve been ‘upgraded’, as it were,” she added. “How do we feel about that?”

Race frowned. “‘Upgraded’?”

“Your diagnosis.”

“Oh.” He thought about it for a quiet moment. “I mean, it’s not really much different? It’s the same thing, they just slapped a different name on.”

“Well...hypomania and bipolar disorder are different,” Hannah explained. “Similar, but different. We thought you had hypomania, and maybe you did, but now we think you have bipolar.”

“Well yeah, but like, close enough.”

Hannah hummed thoughtfully. “So you don’t have any feelings about your new diagnosis, then?”

“I mean, I don’t like any of it, but it’s not gonna be different just cause we put a different name on it,” he replied.

“Good,” Hannah nodded. “That’s a good way to think of it.”

Hannah’s office felt so...tame, compared to the Refuge. It was set up more like a home office than any sort of clinical thing, the couch was surprisingly comfy, she had a fish tank, the walls weren’t a sickly, green sorta eggshell color. It was quiet. Besides, he hardly had any reason to resent this space, now that he had the Refuge for comparison.

“How was this past week, then?” Hannah asked.

“Better than the week before,” Race chuckled wanly. For some reason he didn’t want to talk to her about the change in the situation with Spot. He wasn’t even sure what it was in the first place, though that may be a sign he  _ should _ talk to her about it.

“You don’t sound very happy about it, though,” Hannah observed.

Race shrugged yet again, shifting on the couch and pushing his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “I mean, everything is weird now.”

“Weird how?

He pulled a hand from his pocket briefly to drag his fingers through his hair. “Everyone’s acting like I’m a time bomb—fragile or volatile or whatever. It pisses me off.” He scowled.

“I know it’s frustrating,” Hannah said. “It’s going to take everyone, yourself included, time to adjust, but it will happen.”

Race nodded. “I guess...” There was a small pause, and Race impulsively decided to actually try, actually make an effort to at least get some of the shot off his chest. Sometimes it just helps to say things aloud and know someone else heard it. “It was my dad’s birthday yesterday.”

Hannah’s eyebrows shot up, evidently as surprised as he was that he was initiating. “Oh?”

Another nod, though now that he’d said it, he didn’t really know how to continue. “Yeah...my bio dad, I mean.”

“Oh.” Hannah paused, tapping her pen on her notebook as she often did. “Do you do anything for his birthday?”

“Yeah...I go visit. I get cupcakes. Red velvet was his favorite...” Race mumbled. He wasn’t particularly comfortable discussing it, let alone discussing it with someone who wasn’t close, but he kept going anyway. “An’ I go to the cemetery and just...” He didn’t really have an ending to his sentence.

“That’s really nice, Tony,” Hannah said.

He hummed noncommittally. “I go on Father’s Day, too, and...y’know, when...” He trailed off, hoping to avoid the end of that sentence and the unwelcome thoughts and feelings that would come with it.

Hannah seemed to understand. “How do you feel, talking about him?”

“I...” Race took a slow breath, trying to figure out how to actually get his thoughts into words. “I feel like I can’t. Like...like it isn’t fair.”

Hannah pursed her lips. “Isn’t fair?”

“To my parents.”

“I see...” A moment’s pause. “Why do you think you feel that way?”

Race shifted a bit, bringing one of his legs up on the couch to cross under him. “Well...” He frowned again. He very distinctly knew how he felt, he just didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like an idiot or an asshole. Granted, one or the other—sometimes both—was the usual result anyway, whatever he said. “They adopted me, obviously. I guess I sorta feel like I owe them?”

“Owe them what, exactly?”

His gaze drifted blankly towards the floor. “Everything,”

“Do you think they would agree with you?”

Race shook his head and spoke quietly. “Doesn’t change the guilt though.”

“Have you ever talked to them about this?”

“No...” he mumbled. “They’d get upset—not like, mad, but...” He gestured vaguely again.

“Right, right.” Hannah presses her lips together into something that vaguely resembled a sympathetic smile. “Do you want to talk to  _ me _ about him?”

Race hesitated, then sighed heavily. “I dunno. I just— I can’t really talk to anybody about it. It wouldn’t be fair to talk to Mom or Dad, Al is great but he doesn’t get it, Jack can relate more but it’s still crazy different. Plus it’s, like, super depressing.” Race concluded his rather morose statement in a light, jovial, entirely fake manner.

“That’s why I suggested you talk to  _ me _ ,” Hannah said.

He reflexively wanted to refuse, but the conceal-don’t-feel route didn’t seem to be working anymore—it never really did in the first place. “What are the rules?”

Hannah tilted her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“What am I not allowed to say? Like, what sorta stuff are you gonna tell other people?”

She shook her head. “You’re allowed to say anything, and I will  _ only _ tell anyone if I think you’re a danger to yourself or others.”

“Will you give me warning beforehand if things are drifting that way?”

Hannah pressed her lips together into something that was definitely not a smile. “Tony, I need to know if that’s the case.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t mean like I’m gonna lie or somethin’.” He probably was. “I mean, like, will you tell me it’s happening before I get strapped down and dragged off again?”

Hannah hesitated before responding. “Okay. Deal.”

Race nodded. “Okay, cool.” He was quiet for another moment, still hesitant for a variety of reasons. “I don’t really know how to actually do this? Like I’ve gone to therapy lots of times before, obviously, but like...”

“Just do what feels right,” Hannah suggested gently.

“Yeah, well, none of it feels right.” Race grumbled quietly, shifting restlessly on the couch.

Hannah set her notebook behind her on her desk and turned back to Race. “Why don’t you tell me what he looked like?”

Race pressed his lips tight together, and his eyebrows creased slightly as he continued frowning at the carpet. “It’s...kinda hard to remember clearly, y’know, since I was still, like, a kid.”

“That’s okay. What  _ do _ you remember?”

“He had real curly hair, like mine, but it was pretty dark. I guess I got the blond from—” He gestured vaguely towards a mother that hadn’t been there then and wasn’t here now.

“What was his name?”

“Vince...Vincent Giovanni Folliero.”

Hannah smiled. “I’m guessing he was Italian.”

This pulled a short chuckle out of Race. “Yeah, very.”

“What else do you remember?”

“He used to sing a lot...older, classic sorta stuff.” A tiny, barely even noticeable smile had managed to secure itself in the corner of his mouth. He thought about his dad all the time, running through what few memories he had, fighting desperately to keep them from fading, but telling someone about him,  _ really _ telling someone, without worrying, was different.

“He was teachin’ me Italian, right along with the English. Actually used Italian morewhen it was us, cause I got more exposure to the English, so gotta compensate.” The smile faltered. “Course, I’m all outta practice now; don’t got anyone to use it with...”

“Have you tried one of those language apps?” Hannah suggested. “Duolingo or—”

Race nodded. “‘Course, yeah, but it doesn’t  _ really _ work. Y’need immersion.”

“Maybe you could find a class nearby.”

He hummed, somehow having never thought of that before.

“It’s clear that you love and miss your father a lot. I think taking real steps to feel connected to him might help you,” Hannah explained.

He nodded slowly. That actually wasn’t a half bad idea. “Yeah...that’d be cool.”

“Is there anything else you want to talk about before I have to let you go?”

Race stood up. “I been having trouble sleeping lately, so I’ve been thinking a lot… D’you think turtles are slow because God fears them?”

Hannah blinked. “What?”

Race continued very matter of factly. “Did God make turtles slow because He’s afraid of what they could do?”

“No, I heard you—“

“If a turtle was fast, could it kill God?”

* * *

After therapy, Race settled in for a normal, lazy Saturday afternoon. He loaded up his fifth playthrough of Lego Star Wars: The Complete Saga, once again trying to max the game out faster than he had the last time. By the time he got to the Mos Espa Pod Race, he was already bored. After a split second of consideration, Race pulled out his phone, intending to text Jack or Albert, see if they were free to go tobogganing in the skate park. The previous summer, Race had managed to collect 16 skateboards—mostly broken ones taken from dumpsters, or bought off younger kids who weren’t good at haggling—and jerry-rigged together a relatively massive, sixty-four wheeled monstrosity that he insisted was a ‘land toboggan’. Of course, in reality, it was a damned nuisance, and rather dangerous too, but those descriptors were practically the hallmarks of the Racetrack Higgins brand.

Pulling up his recent text messages, Race automatically clicked the top message stream, expecting it to be—as it usually was—the Two Musketqueers and the Token Straighty. Instead, he had opened a conversation between himself and Spot, and he was surprised to find himself displeased that it wasn’t a school day. Even more surprising, he was displeased by this because he wanted to see Spot.

On complete impulse, Race decided to ask his parents if Spot could come over to study. The semester was nearly over, and they needed to make sure everything was in order for their project—he already knew it was, but it was still a good reason. After a brief questioning about whether that was really necessary, his parents reluctantly agreed, so Race sent Spot a text.

“ _ You busy? _ ”

“ _ No, why? _ ”

“ _ Wanna go over the project? Make sure we didn’t miss anything? _ ”

There was a long pause—well, maybe a couple minutes, but it felt long—before Spot replied, “ _ The project looks great, Race _ .”

Race scowled at his phone, why was he always such a stubborn dick? “ _ fine _ ”

After a few seconds, Race impulsively sent another. “ _ Wanna come over anyway? _ ”

* * *

Race went downstairs to make sure he was the one nearest to the door, so he could answer when Spot arrived. Time always goes slower when you’re waiting for something, so while it was really only twenty minutes before there was a knock on the door, Race would’ve sworn it was at least an hour.

“I got it,” Race called as he went to open the door.

Upon opening it, he found himself subject to an effect similar to that of unexpectedly seeing Spot in formal wear, but in the opposite direction. That is, while Race was used to seeing Spot in jeans and t-shirts, he was currently in sweatpants and a worn-out hoodie, and it was really adorable.

Race didn’t quite manage to catch the smile that quickly darted onto his face. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Spot parroted, staying glued to his place on the porch like some sort of vampire that needed to be invited in.

Race stared just long enough for it to be weird before he stepped to the side and gestured into the house. “You wanna come in, or...?”

“No,” Spot deadpanned. “I want to stand out here, in the cold-ass rain. It’s refreshing.”

Race nodded and started to close the door. “Okay, cool. I’ll open a window so we can talk.”

Spot let him close the door, and, biting back a giggle, Race moved into the living room to open the window that looked out onto the porch. Spot moved over to the window, seemingly undisturbed by this act of malicious compliance.

“You want a drink or a snack or something?” Race continued the bit, holding down a snicker.

“What are you doing?” The voice of a very concerned Mr. Higgins floated in from the hall.

For a split second Race froze and his eyes widened in much the same way as when you realize you just said ‘fuck’ in front of a six year old. Then he turned to look at his father. “Talking to Spot...”

Mr. Higgins raised an eyebrow. “Through the window?”

“Yeah.”

“Hi, Mr. Higgins,” Spot called, and it was clear from his tone of voice that he was cringing.

Mr. Higgins looked mildly surprised to learn that Spot actually  _ was _ there, and it wasn’t just Race talking to an empty porch. “Hello, Sean,” he answered, looking towards Race with unspoken bafflement.

Race moved to open the door, muttering about ‘didn’t want to come in’ and ‘Pyramus and Thisbe’ as he went. This time, when he opened the door, Spot obediently stepped through.

Mr. Higgins nodded a secondary greeting to him before glancing back to Race. “Just holler if you need anything.”

Race quietly mumbled, “Yeehaw,” before answering, “Got it. Thanks, Dad.”

Mr. Higgins disappeared back down the hallway, leaving Spot and Race alone in the entry.

“So...”

Spot shoved his hands back in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Right. Why did you want me here?”

Race rolled his eyes heavily. “You don’t  _ have _ to be here. I just thought maybe we could hang out, ‘cause I’m bored, and you’re fun sometimes.” His sentence ran into mumbles near the end.

Spot scoffed. “Thanks.”

“You’re impossible,” Race huffed.

“Whatever.” Spot looked around. “What do you want to do?”

Race shrugged. “I didn’t really have a plan.”

“Excellent.”

While this was true, Race was also having a bit of trouble coming up with any sort of plan, as he was rather distracted trying to look at Spot without blatantly staring. He was gonna have to use the phenomenon of people being inexplicably hotter in whatever wasn’t their normal style as a base for some research project someday. “D’you wanna like, play something?” He gestured vaguely towards one of the bookshelves near the TV, the bottom row of which was somewhat overflowing with a wide variety of mostly ridiculous games for various consoles. “I think I got a few others upstairs.”

Spot shrugged. “Sure.”

“Go ahead and pick whatever, I guess. Or d’you wanna go see what else I got?”

“Advise me.”

“Uhhhhh...” Race looked dumbly over what was visible of his rather extensive video game collection—his friends had a habit of giving gifts of games that they wanted to play, but couldn’t justify buying for themselves. “I’m pretty sure I still have the good ones in a bag somewhere upstairs. Took some to Albert’s,” he explained.

Spot raked his fingers through his slightly damp hair, looking over the games and back to Race. “Yeah, a’right.”

Jerking his head slightly to indicate Spot should follow, Race went upstairs and into his room. He absently remembered how empty Spot’s room at his aunt’s house had looked and wondered what Spot thought of the eclectic clutter of his room. It was like an only minorly organized tornado had torn through relatively recently. His bed wasn’t made, there was a not quite overflowing laundry hamper in the corner next to his dresser, and his desk—as well as the accompanying chair—was littered with copies of notes he had taken in various classes, waiting to be annotated, and thusly sold for a higher price. Spot, however, didn’t react to his room much at all. In fact, he didn’t even go in it; he just leaned against the doorway in that stupid, fucking, sexy way, god, what an  _ asshole _ —

Race stared at him for a second, thinking—well, we’ll say it’s thinking. His mom was out for her book club meeting, and Mr. Higgins was in the office, most likely watching something with his big bulky headphones on. Mr. Higgins was fond of technology, but always in the weirdest ways—like the automatic can opener he had insisted on getting Mrs. Higgins for Christmas last year.

“Don’t just stand there like an idiot; c’mere.”

Spot smirked and narrowed his eyes. “Why d’you want me in your bedroom so bad, Higgins?”

Race rolled his eyes heavily again. “Cause the screen in here is loose, so I can push you out the window easier.”

“God, I knew it.” Spot’s smirk turned into a devastating smile, and he stepped into the room anyway. “I knew you were trying to kill me.”

Race sneered at him, lightly kicking the door shut. “You’re actually the worst.”

“I’d show myself out, but you’re blocking the door.”

“That’s what the window’s for.”

“What’s with you and windows today?” Spot snickered, taking a casual step towards Race.

“What’s with you being a dick today? Oh wait, that’s not new,” Race quipped right back, mirroring Spot’s step. He knew it was a childish retort, but the two brain cells he had bouncing around in his head were both much more focused on remembering what Spot looked like without a shirt on, rather than witty remarks.

“What am I doing exactly?” Spot asked, “Besides existing in your home.”

_ You’re being all dumb and hot with your stupid sexy face, and your stupid sexy arms, and your stupid sexy hoodie—how can a hoodie even be sexy!? _ “I dunno. I think that’s enough on its own.” Race took another step towards Spot.

“I can leave,” Spot said.

Race must have imagined the way Spot’s gaze flickered down to his lips before locking back onto his eyes.

“Thought you said I’m in the way?”

“Thought you said I could go through the window.”

Before answering, Race very briefly licked his lips, as one sometimes does before speaking, and was pleased with the result as he  _ definitely _ saw Spot’s gaze flick down that time. “Hey man, if that’s what you wanna do,”

“Is that what  _ you _ want?” Spot’s voice had dropped an octave, and Race felt a brief swoop in his stomach, taking another small step towards Spot without really noticing. 

“What do you think I want?”

Spot chuckled lowly. “‘M not a mind reader, Race.”

“Well maybe learn to pick up on context clues, goddamn.” And Race grabbed a fistful of the front of Spot’s shirt, tugging him forward as he stepped in, closing the already narrow distance between them and crashing their lips together.

Spot let out a  _ beautiful _ laugh, pulling Race closer by the hips, and Race kissed him aggressively, trailing his hands up and over his shoulders, grabbing and pulling at his shirt as he went, trying to bring Spot even closer as he moved to wrap his arms around him.

Spot moved his hands to Race’s shoulders and pushed him off, panting, “Dumbass, your parents are going to kill me.”

Race whined at the separation. Automatically stepping a bit closer again before Spot’s words even connected. “Shut up, it’s fine.” Ah yes, a well thought out and logical rebuttal.

“Your dad doesn’t own a shotgun, does he?” Spot sounded like he was only halfway joking.

Race laughed, reaching to tangle his fingers in the hem of Spot’s shirt. “No, he doesn’t.”

Spot hesitated, biting his lip and searching Race’s eyes.

Race allowed his eyes to dart to Spot’s mouth before meeting his gaze again and narrowing his eyes. “What?”

“Fuck it.” Spot put his hands on either side of Race’s neck and dragged him back into a kiss.

Race responded enthusiastically, pressing closer and continuing to lightly tug and pull on Spot’s shirt. Spot muttered something inaudible and turned them around so Race was standing at the foot of his bed.

“Wh—nnph.” Race’s question was cut off as Spot pushed down on his shoulders so he was sitting. “What are you—“

“I said you’re  _ soft. _ ” Spot kissed him again, now having the high ground as Race was sitting down.

“The fuck is that supposed t—” Race was cut off once again by Spot’s mouth on his. Then Spot’s fingers were in his hair, and his tongue was in his mouth, and he smelled nice, and life wasn’t fair. Race grabbed ahold of Spot’s hips, pulling him forward to straddle his lap, and a low whine escaped his throat as Spot found a tighter grip in his hair.

“Keep this up,” Spot said between kisses, “and I’ma start thinking you like me.”

Never one to miss an opportunity to be an ass hat, Race strongly considered saying ‘Oop, better stop’ and standing up sharply, dropping Spot onto the floor as he went. However, as delightful as that would have been, it would probably have ended with Spot decking him and walking out, so instead he said, “I dunno, maybe a little,” and slid his hands up under Spot’s shirt to then drag them down his sides, scraping slightly with his nails. Spot let out a sharp breath and pulled Race’s hair back to expose more of his neck, and Race gasped, eyelids fluttering for a moment.

Race had a good amount of experience with sex—shocking, I know—and he’d been with many different people who had been all sorts of different ways. A few had been the dominating type, but not like Spot was. For Spot, it just seemed natural. He was confident, cocky (heh) even, and he definitely knew how to walk that line between inflicting pain and pleasure. Somewhat surprisingly, it was evident that he was paying attention to what Race liked; He had definitely started playing with his hair more, comparative to the first time. 

Spot brushed his lips just under Race’s jaw, feather light, breathing softly. “I’m not gonna fuck you with your dad in the house.”

Although this was a very good point, Race whined unhappily anyway.

Spot laughed. “Needy bitch.” He kissed Race’s neck again before tilting his head back up, letting go of Race’s hair along the way.

Race frowned at him. “Never took you for a tease, Conlon.”

“I value my life. Call it a rain check.”

Race grumbled nonsensically for a moment before turning it into words. “Well, now what are we gonna do?”

* * *

“Would you stop it with the blue shells already!?” Race annoyedly gestured at the TV, where his kart had once again spun out.

Spot snickered, enjoying this way too much. “Not my fault ‘Racetrack’ is a misnomer.”

Race sputtered indignantly. “I’ve been in the lead this whole time! Besides, it’s an entirely different situation.”

Spot (as Boo) whizzed past Race (as Waluigi) just as Race was getting back on track. With a smirk, Spot unleashed a banana peel, causing Race to slip up again. Race exclaimed in wordless indignance as he spun out and ended up going the wrong way for a hot second.

Spot snickered and chanced a look away from the screen, towards Race. He still wasn’t sure what was going on between them, exactly. They hadn’t labeled it, but it seemed to be creeping towards friends with benefits. Spot was okay with that. Hell, he’d have to be an idiot to turn that down. Race was very nice to look at and even nicer to touch.

Spot looked back at the screen just in time to keep Boo from running into a wall. “See, here’s your problem, Race. You’re all about speed and no strategy.”

Race grumbled, having turned his kart around and started off in the correct direction. “Who needs strategy? Ya gotta go fayst.”

“ _ Fayst? _ ” Spot snorted.

Race nodded in confirmation. “Fayst.”

Cute.

About that time, Mrs. Higgins came in from the garage. “How’s it going, Tony?” she called.

“We’re good!” Race called back over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the screen.

Boo crossed the finish line just a fraction of a second before Waluigi, and Race wailed in frustrated dismay. “No fair; I was distracted!”

“Is that your excuse?” Spot asked, feigning boredom.

“It’s not an  _ excuse, _ it’s a  _ reason _ ,” Race retorted.

“It’s not delivery, it’s DiGiorno.” Spot bopped Race on the head with his controller. “You want a rematch?”

Race sputtered into laughter. “Yeah, okay.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Spot saw Mrs. Higgins’ quizzical gaze linger on them for a moment. “Have you boys eaten?”

Race looked back towards her. “Like ever, or lately?”

“Like lunch, today,” she clarified.

He shook his head, looking questioningly at Spot.

“I’m not hungry, but thank you,” Spot lied. He just didn’t want to interact with Mrs. Higgins any more than necessary.

Race hummed briefly in acknowledgment of his answer, then looked to his mother again. “Well, I am.”

He dropped his controller very intentionally on Spot’s head, and put a hand on the backboard to vault up and over the couch. “Don’t worry, Mom; I can scavenge,” Race assured Mrs. Higgins as he headed towards the kitchen. “You sure you’re not hungry?” he called back over his shoulder at Spot.

Spot gritted his teeth. “Yeah...” Why’d the stupid boy have to leave him with his mother?

“‘Kay.” And Race disappeared into the kitchen.

Mrs. Higgins offered Spot a tight, somewhat confused looking smile, which Spot returned.

“Uh...” Spot scratched the back of his head. “Hi.”

“Hi, Sean,” she replied. “Studying went well then?”

“ _ Uh _ .” Oh, of course Race told them they’d be studying. “Yeah. The paper’s lookin’ good.”

Mrs. Higgins nodded. “That’s good.” She moved over to sit in the armchair by the couch, but she didn’t really get comfortable. God, why was she staying? “Remind me what the project is on?”

_ Shit _ . Spot played with his own fingers in his lap. “It’s on, uh...the parent-offspring conflict theory.”

She nodded, clearly expecting him to go on.

“It’s about parental investment, see,” Spot explained, biting back a sigh. “Sometimes more would benefit the child, but at the detriment of the parent. So like, if mom pays more attention to Johnny, that’s great for Johnny, but not so great for Billy, and if Johnny’s takin’ more than he needs, that’s bad for mom’s...you know...reproductive success.” If Spot never had to say ‘reproductive success’ in front of Race’s mom again, he would have said it ten too many times.

She nodded again. “Sounds very interesting.”

“It is.” At least, it was to him. “Explains why parents don’t always do what’s best for their kids, y’know?” He shifted around uncomfortably.

Another nod, and there was awkward silence for a moment. Then, Mrs. Higgins quietly sighed, actually relaxing a bit into the armchair rather than perching on the edge of it.

“Sean, I never thanked you properly, for what you did for Tony.”

“I...” Spot reply, whatever it would have been, died on his lips. He cast a thoughtless glance into the kitchen, where Race was climbing onto the counter to reach something in the back of a high shelf in one of the cabinets. He shrugged.

“No, really.” Mrs. Higgins sat forward a bit, fixing him with a very sincere look. “I am more grateful than words can say, we both are.” She gestured towards the office where Mr. Higgins presumably was. “What you did was—… If you hadn’t—...” She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment.

Spot felt completely blindsided by this twist in the conversation. “Mrs. Higgins,” he shook his head, “I didn’t do anythin’ special; I just panicked. Okay? ‘Sides, it’s partly my fault we were there it the first place. Net worth is I’ve done more harm than good.”

She shook her head. “I know you boys have had some...trouble with each other, but you saved him. Twice, now. And I will be forever grateful.”

Spot shrugged again, unsure what to do with the unexpected praise she was suddenly heaping on him.

“Thank you, for watching out for him.”

“Yeah. Any time.”

“Let’s hope you don’t need to.”

A laugh forced its way through Spot’s carefully crafted defenses. Forced to explain, he chanced a joke. “Have you met your son?”

Mrs. Higgins laughed lightly, with the first genuine smile Spot had seen so far. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“I can hear you, y’know!” Race called from out of sight in the kitchen, and Mrs. Higgins laughed again.

“Thank you again, Sean,” said as she got up and walked towards the office.

The moment she disappeared, all the tension Spot didn’t know he was harboring drained from his body. So maybe Mrs. Higgins didn’t hate him as much as he thought. Yay.

Not too keen on sitting alone in the living room, Spot hopped up and made for the kitchen. Race was sitting cross legged on top of the kitchen island, eating some sort of sandwich, with what looked like the remains of some leftover pizza sitting in tinfoil on the counter next to him. He hummed a greeting as Spot came in.

Spot leaned back against the island next to him and folded his arm across his chest. “Hey.”

As usual, where Race was involved, he had no clue how to handle this relatively simple situation. Were they done with games? Should he go home? Race, seeming perfectly at ease, held his sandwich out towards Spot, quirking his eyebrows in a wordless offer to share.

This only confused Spot further. “No thanks; I’m good.”

Race shrugged and took another bite. “Your loss,” said around a mouthful of sandwich.

_ Something else _ , Mrs. Higgins had said. Race was definitely that—charmingly irritating, delicate like a bomb, stupid and brilliant, like a puppy and a wildcat rolled into one big, beautiful contradiction. Spot couldn’t really blame himself for being intrigued.

“So’d Mom give you the adoption spiel?”

Spot knit his eyebrows in confusion. “The adoption spiel?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed his bite of sandwich before continuing and used the sandwich to gesticulate as he spoke. “She’s got this whole ‘neighborhood mom’ type thing. ‘Come and go as you please’, ‘help yourself to food’, that sorta stuff.” He shrugged, taking another bite. “She’s ‘adopted’ pretty much all ‘a my friends.”

Spot had been about to remind Race that his parents were not exactly fond of him, but his mind got stuck on that word ‘friends’. Where they friends? “Nah,” he answered after a pause. “Guess I didn’t make the cut.”

Race shrugged again. “To be fair, you got a bit more to work against than the usual crowd.”

“Maybe I’m just a shitty parasite,” Spot suggested. “No one ever likes me who didn’t make me.”

Race blinked at him, surprised. “What?”

Spot shrugged. “‘S just how it goes, Race.” Except it wasn’t, apparently. Mr. and Mrs. Higgins didn’t make Race, but they clearly loved him more than anything else in the universe. “I made peace with it a long time ago.” Except he hadn’t. Not at all.

Race frowned. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Spot rolled his eyes, annoyance—let’s call it annoyance instead of jealousy—settling in as an uncomfortable warmth all over his skin. “Not everyone gets magical freaks of nature screwing over millions of years of evolution to take care of them,” he snapped. “That’s not how it goes. That’s not how it’s  _ supposed _ to go. It’s—I—” He faltered. Hell, he entirely collapsed.

Race slid off the counter to stand by Spot, frowning in concern. “Spot, I don’t get it, what’s going on?” His voice was surprisingly gentle—pretty much the polar opposite of the manic, aggressive bullshit Spot was used to.

All of Spot’s defenses flew up and slammed shut like a drawbridge. “Nothing.” He pushed off the island. “I should go.”

Race sputtered, turning to follow him. “Dude, what the fuck?”

Spot power-walked into the living room and grabbed his backpack from beside the couch. “Let it go, Race.”

“Uh,  _ no? _ ” Race replied, following him closely. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Is everything okay?” Mr. Higgins asked, appearing in the archway to the hall and glaring at Spot.

_ Point made _ , Spot thought. “Yes, Mr. Higgins. I was just leaving.”

Race threw his hands up in confused frustration as Spot continued to stoically ignore him while he headed towards the door.

“See you at school, Race,” Spot grumbled.

“Yeah, sure,” Race huffed.

Spot grabbed the front door handle and looked back over his shoulder. Mr. Higgins had disappeared back down the hallway, and Race was standing by the couch, glaring at him, looking a weird mix of confused, frustrated, and a little bit hurt.

On impulse, Spot walked back to him and kissed him. As usual, Race opened his dumb mouth to say something, and was silenced by Spot. Race barely even had time to kiss him back before Spot pulled away.

“Text me?” Spot asked, immediately disgusted by the hopefulness in his own tone of voice.

Race’s mouth was hanging the tiniest bit open, and his eyebrows quirked down slightly. He looked absolutely baffled. “Y—sure,” he answered.

God  _ damnit _ , he was cute. Spot nodded and turned back towards the door before he could make any more impulsive decisions.

He heard Race take a breath like he was going to say something, but he stayed quiet, and Spot offered him a thin smile as he left the house. “Seeya, Higgins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is autocorrect’s take on Pyramus and Thisbe.


	37. Three Words and I'm Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Spot try to figure out what's going on.

“And then he just left. I don’t get it.” Race glared at his slice of pizza as if it were at fault.

“He...said he was leaving, and then he left,” Jack repeated slowly.

Albert slurped on a Capri-Sun.

Race rolled his eyes heavily. “Yeah, duh, but it was the  _ way _ he left.”

“How did he leave?” Albert asked, setting down his empty Capri-Sun pouch and retrieving another from his backpack.

Race took a moment to watch in wonderment. He’d known Albert for eleven years and somehow still wasn’t used to the constant onslaught of brightly colored foil packets. “He stopped and, like, came back to kiss me again. It was super weird.”

“Race,” Jack huffed, “he  _ likes you _ .”

* * *

“Dude, you  _ like him _ ,” Hot Shot interrupted.

Spot groaned. “Yeah, no shit. I like him. Now what?”

“Now you do something about it, dumbass,” Myron snorted, amused.

“Like what?”

“Ask him out,” suggested Myron at the same time as Vince said, “Just fuck him again.”

“I fully intend to do one of those things.”

* * *

“I don’t see the problem,” Albert said. “If you don’t like him back, just ghost him.”

“I mean, sure, but...” Race frowned, entirely unsure where that ‘but’ was leading.

Jack exhaled sharply in exasperation. “He  _ does _ like him back, idiot.”

Albert scoffed, clearly not buying it, but frowned incredulously when Race dropped his gaze to the table, a slight pink spreading over his cheeks. “You can’t be serious.”

Race flushed a bit brighter. “Shut up, I dunno.”

“Yes, you do,” Jack argued.

“It’s complicated!” Race protested.

* * *

“It’s not that cut and dry and you know it,” Hot Shot retorted.

Spot frowned. “What do you mean? Yes it is!”

“No, it’s not!  _ Clearly _ he’s more than just a good lay, otherwise you wouldn’t be so worried about the whole thing.”

“I’m not worried.” Spot took an angry bite of his sandwich.

“Worked up, pissy, whatever you wanna call it.” Hot Shot waved dismissively.

“Seriously, what’s the big deal? Why are you being so stubborn?” Myron leaned in, and Spot leaned away. “You like him. Just—”

Again, Vince suggested, “Fuck him,” as Myron suggested, “Ask him out.”

Spot growled in frustration, slamming his forehead against the table.

Myron rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a dumbass. It’s pretty obvious he likes you too.”

“I don’t know  _ what _ he likes,” Spot grumbled into the faux-wood grain of the cafeteria table.

“Your di—!” Hot Shot clapped his hand over Vince’s mouth to cut off the end of his sentence as Myron continued.

“So ask him.”

* * *

Jack thumped Race on the head. “Who are you and what have you done with Racetrack?”

Race whined loudly and put his hands over his head protectively. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Exactly!” Jack thumped him again. “A hot guy wants to fuck you, and you’re hesitating!”

Albert even nodded. “We need an exorcism. That’s not Race.”

“I’m not hesitating!” Race protested. “It’s a weird situation!”

* * *

“It’s just a weird situation,” Spot sighed, “what with me breakin’ his nose when we were kids and calling him a faggot and all that.”

Vince waved dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. He’s such a beta bitch, he probably liked it.”

Hot Shot clouted the back of his head, hard.

Spot snickered. “No, Vince is right. Try pulling his hair, sometime.”

“I think I’ll leave that to you,” Hot Shot chuckled.

“God.” Spot groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “He’s so hot. What do I do?”

Once again Vince and Myron chorused, “Fuck him!” and, “Ask him out!”

Spot groaned louder.

* * *

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He’s so hot!”

Jack scoffed. “When has that ever been an issue in the past?”

“This is different!” Race protested.

“How?” Albert deadpanned, clearly over this conversation.

Race answered in noncommittal grumbles, not having any sort of real answer.

“You’re being impossible over nothing,” Jack said. “You want his dick. He wants to give it to you. It’s simple. Take the dick, Race.”

* * *

“Maybe you just need to get it out of your system. I mean you only fucked once, right? Maybe round two will clear things up,” Myron offered with a shrug.

“Have we not already established that I am going to fuck him again?” Spot asked irritably. “He practically threw himself at me on Saturday, and I had to tell him no because his dad was in the house.”

Vince snickered. “What’re you gonna do about it then?”

“I just said— Jesus Christ.” Spot shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and went to take his trash to the trash can.

* * *

“It’s not that big of a deal, it’s just weird,” Race insisted, grabbing his now empty paper lunch bag, and heading towards the trash can by the cafeteria wall. He’d told Jack it was different, it was a weird situation, and it was, he just wasn’t particularly sure what that meant. Things had taken a really strange turn, when the history between him and Spot was taken into account. Race crushed the paper bag into a ball in his hands, and chucked it at the trash can, groaning with unnecessary drama when it bounced off the edge and rolled a few feet away. He moved over to grab it, straightening up as he turned back around, and ran straight into Spot Motherfucking Conlon. Well, speak of the devil and he shall appear. At least he looked just as startled as Race.

“ _ Shit _ ,” Race tripped back half a step.

“Oh shit, sorry.” Spot grabbed his upper arm to keep him from falling, and the unexpected touch sent a bolt of static through Race. He felt his cheeks heat up a bit as he recovered his balance.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Well, I’m kinda short.” Spot let go of him and shrugged.

Race choked on a startled laugh. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Spot smiled, and Race’s brain stopped working for a second. “Uh, yeah,” he replied stupidly. Hot boys weren’t a new thing for Race. Being wildly distracted by or even obsessively focusing on a hot boy wasn’t a new thing for Race. The feeling stupid and clumsy was definitely new, and he was not a fan.

Spot glanced over his shoulder at something Race couldn’t pick out amongst the chaos of the cafeteria before he looked back at him.

“So uh...” Spot began, not quite making eye contact and bouncing slightly on his feet. “Anytime you want, you know, you can come to my aunt’s house. She works most afternoons, so I never really have anything planned.” He quickly added, “When you’re allowed again, o’course.”

Race blinked a few times, surprised. “Oh, okay...um, cool. D’you mean for like...?” He trailed off, not really sure what he was even trying to ask.

Spot raised his eyebrows for a moment, then his lips twisted into a devastating smirk, and Race felt the floor very briefly pitch under him, like when you’ve been on a boat for awhile, so you don’t notice the movement, but then it suddenly turns and you’re reminded how un-solid it is beneath your feet.

“Whatever you want,” Spot finally replied, looking very smug.

Well, wasn’t that just not at all an answer. “Right, sure.”

“Well, uh... Text me.”

Race nodded. “Okay, yeah, I will.” A small—although still slightly confused—smile spread across his face as he turned to head back towards his friends, who made a valiant but unsuccessful effort to look like they hadn’t been staring the whole time. He glanced behind him to get another brief look at Spot, who was heading back to his own table, and sat down across from Jack, placing his hands firmly on the table and leaning forward a bit the way one might when providing sudden and serious information.

“I need you guys to cover for me.”

* * *

“I’m guessing your parents don’t know where you’re going,” Spot begrudged as he and Race climbed into his car after school.

“Does it matter?”

Spot put the car in gear and began to pull backwards out of his parking space. “You’re absolutely sure your father doesn’t own a gun?” he joked.

Race rolled his eyes. “You’ve met my father, right?”

“Met, sure,” Spot scoffed. “Pretty sure he’d like to shoot me.”

“Doesn’t mean he has the resources to,” Race quipped.

“Well, how am I supposed to know that?”

“He’s definitely more the type to strangle you or something; guns are messy.”

“Comforting.”

They pulled out onto the main road. Unfortunately for Spot, his aunt lived essentially across town from the high school, which was wildly inconvenient in the mornings.

“What music do you listen to?” Spot grabbed the USB cable that was plugged into the dashboard and threw the free end at Race. “You got Spotify or somethin’?” Now that he had asked, he was suddenly, genuinely curious to know the answer.

Race fumbled with the cable briefly. “Uh, yeah. I like classic rock type stuff, Queen, Bowie, The Beatles. Rap is cool, too.” He plugged his phone in. “What about you?”

Spot shrugged. “Whatever’s on, I guess.”

Race huffed, mildly amused. “Fair enough.” He picked a station, and one of the many easily confusable rock bands of the 1960s began to play quietly through the car’s stereo. Spot wasn’t paying much attention to the music, anyway. He was far more invested in Race. He had settled back in the passenger seat, pulling his legs up to cross under him—did this boy ever sit like a normal person? For that matter, did he ever stop moving? He was constantly in motion, like a dry leaf skipping down the street on a windy day. Whether Race was fidgeting with his hair, his clothes, his hands, he was never completely stationary.

“Do you have homework?” Spot asked, struggling to keep his eyes on the road instead of on Race.

Race looked towards him and scoffed lightly. “I guess you could put it that way.”

“What the hell is  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

He smirked, looking out the window again. “Don’t worry about it.”

Spot rolled his eyes and just kept driving. They were quiet for a moment—well, not really quiet, as Race was softly singing along with the music, more mumbling than anything. It was...fucking adorable is what it was, goddamnit. The song ended, and a new one shuffled on. Spot recognized this one, actually—Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, but the first few bars were barely out before Race screwed up his face and skipped to the next song.

“Don’t like that one?” Spot asked.

Race grunted noncommittally, but the air around him was suddenly very heavy, and unhappy.

Spot glanced at him. “Hey.” He reached across the center console and gently touched his arm. “What’sa matter?

Race’s gaze snapped to him quickly, darting over his hand before meeting his eyes. “Nothin’, I’m fine.”

It was a hollow, automatic sort of answer, but Spot had more pressing matters to deal with, like driving, so he let it go.

It took almost half an hour to get back to Aunt Beth’s house in the traffic, and Spot let out a heavy sigh of relief when they finally pulled into the driveway.

“What d’you do here all day, by yourself?” Race asked.

Spot shrugged. “Homework, mostly. Watch Law & Order reruns.” He put the car in park. “Think of new and exciting ways to make your life miserable.”

Race turned to meet his gaze, eyebrows raised in mildly surprised interest, and a playful spark had lit up behind his eyes. “‘S that so?”

“Oh, yeah.” Spot nodded, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the door. “It’s my mission in life, you know.”

“Gee, Spotty, I didn’t know you cared,” Race teased, opening his door as well to get out of the car. He followed Spot up to the door, and Spot was almost painfully aware of his presence the entire time.

“‘Course I care. I saved your life, so I own you.”

Race’s eyebrows went up again, and the barest hint of pink dusted his cheeks, so light Spot wasn’t entirely sure it was there. “Oh, is that how that works?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know?” Spot unlocked and opened the front door, gesturing for Race to go in ahead of him.

“There’s plenty a’ shit I don’t know.” Race replied, stepping inside.

“Oh yeah?” Spot stepped in after him and closed the door behind them. “Such as?”

“I can never figure out the right amount of spaghetti to cook, it’s either way too much, or like, three noodles.”

Spot laughed, heading into the living room to drop his backpack off next to the desk. “Aren’t you supposed to be Italian?”

Race kicked his shoes off towards the corner near the door. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

Lizzie started making a racket upstairs, as she always did when she heard someone come home. Spot groaned and shouted up the stairs, “I’ll be there in a second, Liz!”

Race snickered. “I still can’t believe you kept her.”

“What are you talking about? She’s the light of my life.” Spot started up the stairs.

Race laughed, following him. “Never took you for the caring, devoted type.”

“Well, you clearly don’t know me at all.”

Spot opened the door to his room, and Lizzie began her usual routine of screaming and throwing things around her cage to get his attention.

“Calm down, cutie.” Spot stuck his fingers through the cage to scratch the top of her head, which she readily offered. “Look, I brought your former abuser.”

Race stopped in the doorway, crossing his arms and leaning against the door jamb. “Excuse you; I’m her liberator.”

Spot shot him a disbelieving look. “You put her in a locker.”

“Which was distinctly bigger than her cage in the pet store.”

“And distinctly smaller than the cage she’s in, now.” Spot opened her door, and she hopped out onto his hand. “You know, you two aren’t so different.”

Race choked on a laugh. “Me and the bird?”

“Yeah. You’re both cute, loud, and a royal pain in the ass.” Spot held Lizzie up to his shoulder, and she quickly hopped over and snuggled into her favorite place at the side of his neck.

Race scoffed. “I guess that’s fair,”

Spot sat on the edge of his bed. “I have to take her out for a few minutes when I get home, or she just throws a fit,” he explained, gesturing to the little ball of feathers on his shoulder.

Race nodded. “Yeah, my one ex said something similar about me, too.”

Spot snorted. That sounded like Race, alright. Spot imagined Race would make a very entertaining but equally high-maintenance boyfriend.

That was an interesting thought.

Race pushed off the door frame and moved over to sit on the bed next to Spot, getting a closer look at Lizzie. “I guess she  _ is _ kinda cute.”

“Yeah...” The little alarm that had started going off in his head whenever Race was near sounded. He and Race were like magnets; if they stayed far enough away, nothing happened, but if they got too close, there was bound to be a collision.

Race hummed, paying more attention to the bird than Spot. He slowly reached towards her, offering his hand for inspection or greeting, and she promptly bit him. Race yelped—more outraged than hurt—and recoiled as Spot laughed, gently pushing Lizzie off his shoulder and back onto his hand.

“Come on, Lizzie. Don’t be mean.” She twittered at him, and he continued as if she had spoken. “Yeah, I know he’s that bitch who put you in a locker.”

Race grumbled about ‘unnecessary retaliation’ as he frowned at his finger, which didn’t seem to have sustained any notable damage. She was a tiny bird, after all.

Spot deposited Lizzie back into her cage, grabbing the bag of sunflower seeds he kept next to it and shaking a couple out into her bowl. “You need a bandaid?” he teased Race. “Maybe some stitches?”

“I think we need to amputate,” Race answered.

“I’ve got a pocket knife.”

“Bread knife might be better.”

“We got those, too.” Spot had made his way back over to Race without realizing. Once again, magnets.

Race, seemingly tired of this game, braced his arms behind him on Spot’s bed, leaning back a bit and looking aimlessly around the room. “Do you have anything to do here, or is the IKEA close-out sale look on purpose?”

The truth was that Spot’s parents hadn’t wanted him to move and tried to incentivize him to stay by forbidding him from bringing anything he didn’t basically need to survive—a sort of ‘we paid for your computer, the PlayStation, so it’s ours’ deal. They’d only relented on his phone when they realized he was leaving with or without it. He shrugged. “School keeps me busy.”

Race scoffed. “Not  _ that _ busy.”

Spot didn’t know what to say. Race was right. “We got a TV.”

Race shrugged. “Sure,”

Spot nodded and headed back out into the hallway. “What do you like to watch?”

Race stood and followed him. “I dunno, I usually get distracted.”

As vaguely uncomfortable as having Race just follow him around his aunt’s house all day should have been, Spot would have been lying if he said he didn’t at least appreciate the company. They made their way back down the stairs and into the living room, where Spot grabbed the remote off the end table and turned on the TV. He gestured to Aunt Beth’s box of movies in the TV stand, “You can look through there for a movie, if you want. S’mostly chick flicks,” and began flipping through channels.

Running a hand briefly through his hair in an attempt to get it out of his eyes, Race headed towards the TV stand. Spot continued flipping through channels, past the news and the weather and some vet show where a lady had her arm all the way up a cow’s ass. He did pause and blink a couple times at that before moving on. Law & Order was on, as always. Law & Order is on one channel or another twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, after all. He flipped past it to more news, SpongeBob, some overly dramatic reality show.

“What about this?” Race waved a copy of  _ Bridget Jones’s Diary _ in Spot’s general direction.

Spot stopped on one of the million medical dramas he couldn’t keep straight and looked down at Race. “Let me guess—you have a thing for Colin Firth.”

“Who doesn’t? Besides, there’s a pretty good fist fight in this one.”

Spot sighed. “Alright. Whatever.” He walked over, took the movie from Race, and began setting it up in the DVD player. “We got, like, popcorn and shit in the kitchen, if you’re into that.”

“Nah, ‘m not hungry.” Race crossed the room to flop onto the couch, taking up most of the space.

Spot rolled his eyes at Race’s choice of position as he deposited the DVD into the player. He grabbed the other remote—because of course everything has to have a different remote—and joined Race, sitting directly on top of his shins to make a point.

Race chuckled. “You comfy?”

“Yep.”

“I’m pretty sure you chose the least comfortable part of me to sit on but whatever.”

Spot ignored him, skipping through the DVD’s previews to the menu and pressing ‘play’. He had never seen  _ Bridget Jones’s Diary _ before, and something told him he was not going to enjoy it.

Race began to shift his legs a bit under him. “You’re heavy,” he complained.

“That sounds like a  _ you _ problem,” Spot shot back.

“You’re like a neutron star,” Race grumbled, continuing to wiggle.

Spot eventually moved off his legs, not at all to appease Race, but because the wiggling was annoying. “Are you always this annoying, or is it just for me?”

“Just for you,” Race parroted back, smirking.

“Lucky me.”

Race turned and sat up, moving a good bit closer to Spot in doing so. “You really just hang out and do nothing all day?” he asked.

Spot side-eyed him as the proximity alarm went off again. “Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”

Race let out an amused huff. “I’d lose my mind.”

“Thought you’d already done that,” Spot quipped, turning back to the movie he was not at all paying attention to. He could see a frown darken Race’s face out of the corner of his eye, and he didn’t answer. Spot turned to him again. “Dude, what’s the matter with you? What are you on about?”

“I’m not crazy,” he answered shortly.

“I beg to differ,” Spot chuckled, surprisingly himself with how fond he sounded. “You’re the craziest person I’ve ever met.”

Race didn’t seem to notice the softness in his voice as he turned to glare at Spot. “I’m not.”

Spot frowned. “Yeah, you are.” Clearly he’d just stumbled onto something sore, and he had no idea how to navigate the minefield that was Racetrack Higgins in the best of times, but he figured it was worth a shot. He shifted so he was facing Race more. “What’s so bad about that, huh?”

Race rolled his eyes, clearly irritated. “Just forget it.”

“No, hey.” Spot paused the movie. Neither of them were watching it, anyway. “I own you, remember? So tell me what’s wrong.” It made him viscerally uncomfortable to see Race upset.

Race pressed his lips together tightly, still frowning at the now still TV, and he stayed quiet just long enough for Spot to be mildly surprised when he replied. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“Everything,” he grumbled. “Whether I’m crazy or not, it doesn’t matter. I’m already damaged goods.”

Spot let out a sharp puff of air, shaking his head. “Well, now I’m  _ totally _ lost.”

“What—d’you want the laundry list of what’s wrong with me?”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with you,” Spot said, surprising himself again.

Race scoffed, rolling his eyes again.

Spot didn’t get it. Sure, Race had been having a rough semester, but he had a lot going for him as a person. He had a lot of friends, and he was smart and talented and devastatingly attractive.

“Well, you need a haircut, I’ll give you that,” Spot teased, reaching up to ruffle the edges of Race’s hair.

Race’s gaze snapped to Spot’s. “Why are you being nice?”

“Because I’m nice,” Spot said. “Surprise.”

“No, come on. Visiting while I was in the Refuge, talking to me, inviting me over, why? You and I both know you don’t need to put in all this effort just to fuck, if that’s what you’re after.”

Now, that caught Spot a little off guard. Race had a point; all he had to do was say the word to get Race into bed. Being nice was never part of the deal. “Guess that’s not all I’m after.”

Race raised an eyebrow skeptically. “What are you after, then?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Spot told him, and it was the truth. “...What do  _ you _ want?”

Race was quiet for a moment. This was probably the first time Spot had seen him actually stop and think before speaking. “I dunno...”

Spot exhaled softly. They had ended up awfully close again, and Race was awfully pretty. Before he could change his mind, he placed his hand on Race’s cheek and leaned in to gently brush their lips together. Race tensed for half a moment, seemingly surprised by the gentleness, but he melted into the kiss quickly, shifting a little closer to Spot. The entire world seemed to slow down, and all Spot could think was ‘ _ soft _ ’. Race was so soft and so pretty. He felt Race’s fingers slowly tangling in the hem of his T-shirt, tugging a little bit to pull him closer. Spot placed his free hand on Race’s waist and pressed a little harder against his lips. Race let out a quiet, breathy sigh, holding on a little tighter, and tilted his head to respond and deepen the kiss.

It might have been fifteen seconds or fifteen minutes before Spot pulled away, dazed. Race didn’t let go, and he didn’t pull away, staying close and just breathing quietly. He was gorgeous. God, he was  _ gorgeous _ . With his eyes all wide and his lips slightly parted like that...Spot couldn’t think. He leaned in again, this time just barely touching his lips to Race’s cheekbone. Race took a small, almost stuttered breath as he shifted closer, and one of his hands trailed from the hem of Spot’s shirt up to rest lightly on his chest.

“You’re really fucking beautiful,” Spot said, never quite taking his lips off Race’s cheek.

Race scoffed quietly. “‘Beautiful’?”

“Yeah, beautiful,” Spot repeated. “You know you are.”

Race huffed, amused. “Sure.”

Spot leaned his forehead on Race’s shoulder. He could be a tactile person when it suited him, and it suited him. It seemed to suit Race, as well. He moved both hands to Spot’s chest, and pushed him back, just enough that he could turn and swing one leg over Spot’s to straddle his lap. Spot reached up and tangled his fingers in Race’s hair, pulling him down into a kiss, and Race met him happily, bringing his hands to cup either side of Spot’s jaw.

Usually, when Spot and Race kissed, it was a harsh, demanding, desperate sort of thing. This was different. Though eager, the kiss remained soft and slow and gentle. Race smelled like a strange mixture of coconut and Axe body spray, and Spot didn’t know if he liked it because it was actually good or because it was on Race. Shit.

He hummed. “Bed?”

Race nodded, and started to get up, but paused. “Wait, when’s your aunt off of work?”

“Later,” Spot promised, pressing another quick kiss to his lips.

Another nod. “Okay, yeah.”

* * *

Race let out a quiet, content sigh and shifted a bit to get more comfortable. Part of him wanted to analyze what had just happened, how different it had been from the first time, but he found himself rather distracted by Spot’s heartbeat. Tucked under Spot’s arm, resting with his head on his chest and one arm slung up across to his opposite shoulder, Race was very aware—in a vague, pleasant sort of way—of the rise and fall of Spot’s chest as he breathed. Spot absently played with Race’s hair, working out the tangles and twisting the curls around his fingers. Race was fascinated by Spot’s sudden, overall gentleness; nearly all of their interactions so far had been some sort of volatile, but today was different, and he wasn’t all too sure about what changed. Spot was still dominant—very much so—but as much as he was dominant, he was attentive, almost caring. Then, of course, there were the  _ several _ times he had called Race some variation of ‘beautiful’. It was strange. He’d had casual sex before—hookups, friends with benefits, and so on—but none of them had ever called him ‘beautiful’. As confusing as it was, Race loved it, and he was happy to lap up the attention. Besides, focusing on how weird things were on Spot’s end provided a nice distraction from how his own feelings seemed to be evolving and complicating. It was a known fact that Anthony ‘Three Words (Let’s Go Fuck) and I’m Yours’ Higgins was a slut. It was also a known fact that Anthony ‘Three Words (I Love You) and I’m Yours’ Higgins was a diehard romantic. The two didn’t always align, and the first was much more common than the second, as very few people had the stamina to keep up with Race in day to day life for any significant period of time.

At the start of the semester, Race had instantly been very attracted to Spot, but there wasn’t any depth to it—at least not skewed positively. Now though, things were changing. A few times in the past week, Race had caught himself daydreaming about Spot, but in simpler ways, rather than entirely sexual. His laugh, that awful smirk when he was being a dick and knew it full well, the way his hair smelled. Spot had a very solid, safe presence, which was weird considering how much bodily harm he had caused Race at this point.

“My aunt’s gonna be here in, like, half an hour,” Spot said. “We should probably have some clothes on, by that point.”

Race grunted in acknowledgment, processing the words a few seconds behind. “Right, yeah,” he said, but he didn’t move to sit up or detangle his legs from Spot’s. Spot didn’t either, just removed his fingers from Race’s hair and began tracing lazy patterns over his shoulder instead. Race sighed quietly again, and tilted his head up to press a soft kiss to the underside of Spot’s jaw, just below the hinge.

Spot looked down at him, and he looked confused for just a moment, then leaned in for a kiss on the lips, which Race met happily, moving his hand from Spot’s shoulder up to cup his cheek. Spot’s hand came to rest on the back of Race’s neck, pulling him in. Race hummed appreciatively, rolling so he was laying half on top of Spot rather than tucked against his side. It was nice, and that was somewhat surprising. Race didn’t usually think of Spot as ‘nice’, and he definitely didn’t think of kissing Spot as ‘nice’. Usual descriptors were more like ‘hot’, or ‘oddly intoxicating’, but this...this was nice.


	38. Everybody Just Wants to Be in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5843 words of pure chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the flu. This is irrelevant, but now you know.

On Tuesday, when Spot saw Race in the hall between classes, he smiled at him. He didn’t mean to do it, exactly. It just happened, because for once, he was actually happy to see the crazy little noodle. Race’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, but he returned an almost blinding smile and nodded shortly upwards in greeting. Was Spot blushing? He was definitely blushing. Fuck. He needed to stop that.

Race had changed courses, now walking more towards Spot and still smiling.

“Uh, hey.” Spot rubbed at the back of his neck, also still smiling. “How’s it going?”

Race shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Same soup, just reheated.”

Spot snorted. Why was that adorable?

“So, you headed to class then?” Race asked.

“Theoretically.”

Race smirked. “‘Theoretically’?”

Spot smirked back. “Unless you got a better idea.”

Race glanced down the quickly emptying hallway before turning back to Spot, grinning now. “Y’know, the supply closet just off the gym doesn’t usually get locked...”

* * *

Wednesday rolled around.

“You’re an  _ idiot _ . What if someone walks in?”

“Would you quit griping?” Race rolled his eyes, continuing his efforts to get Spot’s shirt off. “Everyone is at the assembly, we’re fine.”

Everyone except for them, that was. Race had never been very interested in school assemblies; they were dull and usually entirely unimportant. He  _ was _ , however, interested in the now entirely unoccupied space of the boy’s locker room and what could be accomplished there in the half an hour before the assembly ended.

Spot pushed Race off just far enough to remove his shirt in that devastatingly hot way guys do, just grabbing it behind his neck and yanking it off over his head. Race immediately pressed closer again, shoving Spot back against the wall of lockers in doing so, as he ran his hands up his now bare chest, and leaned in to kiss him.

* * *

Thursday.

“Hey, Spot, can you drive me home?”

Spot closed his locker, smirking, and pulled his backpack onto one shoulder. “Yours or mine?

They made it as far as the car. As soon as the doors shut, Race leaned across the center console to grab a handful of Spot’s shirt and pull him over into a harsh, demanding kiss.

* * *

Fifteen minutes after the bell rang for lunch on Friday, Race crashed into his seat opposite Albert in the cafeteria and set his hands heavily on the table. “Fuck. I think I’m in love with him.”

Albert groaned. “You’re not in love with him.”

“You weren’t there, you don’t know!” Race argued. “It’s not that he’s hot—don’t get me wrong, he is  _ damn _ hot—but, like, he’s nice? And he’s smart, and he’s funny, and he’s  _ so _ hot.”

Albert rolled his eyes. “You’re, like, frienemies with benefits.”

“I mean, sure, what’s your point?”

“My point,” Albert sat up straighter, “is that you’re not ‘in love’ with him. You can’t fall in love with someone in one week.”

Out of nowhere, Jack crashed into the chair next to Race, staring straight into the void. “This nice Jewish family moved in next door to me and I’m in love with their son.”

Albert threw up his hands.

Race gestured emphatically at Jack, staring pointedly at Albert. “ _ See!? _ I’m perfectly reasonable.”

“No, you’re  _ both _ stupid.” Albert turned to Jack. “What’s his name?”

Jack frowned. “D—...Daniel? No, Devon. Uh...”

Albert looked back to Race, looking painfully unamused.

Race nodded smugly. “At least I know mine’s name.”

“You’re not in love with him,” Albert said. “You’re gay and horny.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes!”

“David!” Jack stood up, slamming his hands on the table so hard his tray bounced. “It’s fucking  _ David! _ ”

Race made a sound similar to a deflating balloon as he pfffttthhh-ed into laughter, and Albert groaned. “You’re both useless.”

“You guys don’t understaaaaand,” Jack whined, slumping back into his chair and slowly sliding down until he was mostly underneath the table.

“Albert may have a heart made of frozen jolly ranchers and barbed wire, but  _ I _ have feelings.” Race said, patting the top of Jack’s head. “Tell me about him, lover boy.”

“He’s tall and beautiful and smart and probably straight and he’s about to turn eighteen but he graduated a year early and is taking a gap year before college living with his parents.”

Race giggled. “Beautiful, smart, unattainable, exactly your type.”

Jack groaned loudly.

“So did you talk to him, or just drool and stare?”

“I talked to him!”

“Yeah, right,” Albert scoffed. “What pick up line did you use?”

Jack cringed so hard. “I like your pants, but I think they’d look better on my bedroom floor...”

Race let out half a scream of laughter. “You  _ idiot! _ ”

Albert shook his head, clicking his tongue like a disappointed parent, and Jack covered his face with his hands.

Race was still giggling. “This was what, two seconds after you met him? Great opener, Jack.”

“Oh, shut up. You  _ clearly _ just sucked a dick in a supply closet.”

Race sputtered indignantly, attempting in vain to smooth his very ruffled hair. “Yeah, but I’ve known him for more than two seconds!”

“You’re both pathetic,” Albert sighed. “Remind me why I hang out with the two of you?”

“Cause no one else’ll take you,” Race teased.

“Not true.”

“Absolutely true.”

Albert waved him off, unconcerned. “So what are you gonna do?” he asked Jack.

Race leaned over to lightly elbow Jack in the ribs. “If you need any tips—“

“I think he’d prefer David’s,” Albert snickered.

Jack protested loudly as Race burst into laughter again.

Albert continued, “He must be pretty damn cute to get the great Jack Kelly all flustered like that.”

“I wasn’t flustered until he told me to fuck off!” Jack exclaimed.

Race gasped, maliciously delighted. “Oh  _ shit _ , he shot you down!”

“Yeah.” Jack rolled his eyes. “He shot me down.”

“Damn, has that ever even happened before?”

Jack pouted. “No...”

Race didn’t even try not to giggle, and Jack slid the rest of the way onto the floor beneath the table.

“Don’t be such a drama queen, you’ll find someone else to pine after in like, three days.”

“You don’t understand!”

Race and Albert both rolled their eyes.

“Let me guess,” Albert began boredly. “You’ve found your muse, he’s brighter than the sun in the sky, and his laugh is like the twinkling of stars or a babbling brook or some dumb shit.”

“What the fuck?” Jack’s voice sounded a little tinny from under the table. “No, but his face is perfect and I want to fill a whole sketchbook with it.”

Race snorted. “Someone should write a rom-com about you.”

“Me!?” There was a  _ thump _ as Jack tried to sit up and hit his head underneath the table.

Race laughed harder. “You’re fucking ridiculous! It would be a huge hit!”

Albert nodded. “‘Disaster bisexual propositions nice Jewish boy’.”

“Mmm, that sounds more like a tv series,” Race mused.

“Whatever.” Albert shrugged. “I’d tell you to double date, but you an’ Spot are just fuck buddies, and I’m sure the restraining order against Jack will be filed before the week is out.”

Jack reached above the table to flip Albert off.

“Things can change,” Race said to Albert. “For example, Jack used to have game.”

Jack twisted his wrist to flip Race off instead.

Race giggled, but his mind was a little stuck. Things  _ could _ change between him and Spot. Hell, they already had—third grade bully to project partner to nemesis to fuck buddy to...whatever the hell was happening now. They were still fuck buddies, for sure, but now there were...feelings? Spot had said fucking wasn’t all he was after, and Race was pretty sure he was after more, too, but neither of them seemed to know what exactly they  _ were _ after. It made everything strangely exciting.

* * *

Saturday, Race was late for therapy. His alarm clock didn’t go off—or maybe it did and he just didn’t hear it—so he got to the office about ten minutes after his appointment should’ve started.

“Honestly, we should abolish all clocks. The concept of time itself, really. Live by sunlight, primal instincts, and internal clocks only. I mean, the bus system already runs that way, so why not just expand it?”

Hannah chuckled lightly. “It’s fine, Tony. My appointment after you canceled, so we can make up the ten minutes.”

“I just mean for the good of all mankind,” he explained, flopping into his usual corner of the couch.

“Well, when you become the leader of the world—”

“Nah, that’s way too much responsibility. Speaking of primal instinct, though—” Surprising himself—though Hannah much more so—Race proceeded to talk through the entire Spot situation—his thoughts, his feelings, his confusion, his concern, more or less the spoken equivalent of an angsty, self-insert, smut fanfiction.

“Tony, I don’t need to kn—”

“And he’s so short, right? So you wouldn’t expect him to be a tripod.”

Hannah blinked, horrified. “A what?”

“You know,” Race replied casually, “a tripod—like, a guy with a dick so big it’s practically a third leg.”

“Okay, Tony, I  _ really _ don’t—”

“And, like, it made sense—well, none of it makes sense, but made  _ more _ sense before ‘cause, like, people hate fuck all the time, but he said fucking isn’t all he’s after?”

Hannah sighed. “What are  _ you _ after, Tony?”

He huffed. “I dunno... _ something _ .”

“Something...romantic?”

Race hesitated.  _ Did _ he want something romantic? “I mean, who’s to say what ‘romantic’ really even means.” He didn’t have any point or destination in sight; he was just talking for the sake of making noise and to at least attempt to mask how entirely baffled he was by this ever evolving dynamic.

Concerningly, Hannah picked up her notebook. “Tony, I need to ask you something a little personal.”

Race tried not to frown suspiciously. “Wait—has everything so far been  _ im _ personal?”

“Do you use protection when you have sex?” Hannah just went on.

“Uh, most of the time?”

“Well, that’s...good, I guess. Better than not at all.” Hannah took a couple notes.

“What does that have to do with anything though?”

“Well, it’s important,” she said. “I would recommend you use protection all the time, or at least get tested regularly and make sure he does the same.”

She was talking very much like Race and Spot were going to be a long term thing, and this whole conversation made Race very uncomfortable, and he was starting to regret his impulsive flood of sharing.

“Does it have to be regularly if it’s just the same person?” He shook his head quickly. “Wait, that’s dumb, exclusive fuck buddies aren’t a thing, and even if they were, who says—”

“If you  _ are _ exclusive,” Hannah cut him off, “it’s still a good idea.”

“Well we’re  _ not _ .” He was surprised at the disappointment in his voice.

Hannah raised her eyebrows. “Would you like to be?”

Race opened his mouth to say no. “Yeah, I mean...kinda? I don’t know.”

Hannah shrugged. “Well, that’s for you and him to figure out.”

Race grumbled nonsensically. She was right, and he was still confused. Honestly it was all rather straightforward, but somehow it still didn’t make sense. Having feelings for your childhood bully and current fuck buddy frienemy seemed like a pretty bad choice, but then again, feelings weren’t really choices. The more time passed, the harder it was for Race to convince himself that this was just the usual infatuation that hit with every pretty face that passed by. There wasn’t anything ‘usual’ about Spot; he was unpredictable, a callous asshole, but surprisingly tender and caring at the oddest of times. It was a fascinating, unfortunately irresistible mix, and Race had no idea where it would all end up, but he was more than happy to hang on for the ride.

* * *

“Can I go to Spot’s place after dinner?”

The dining room fell suddenly silent as Mr. and Mrs. Higgins both looked at Race in surprise.

It was a bold move, to be sure, but faint hearts never won fair ladies—or, in this case, super hot short dudes.

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins looked at each other. “I guess that’s okay...” Mrs. Higgins said, at the same time as Mr. Higgins said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, bud...”

Mr. Higgins looked at his wife in surprise, and so did Race. He hadn’t expected a ‘yes’ from either of them.

Mr. Higgins continued, “I thought you said the project is pretty much done. Couldn’t you put on the finishing touches at school?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.” Race frowned slightly at the table. “I sorta just wanted to hang out...”

“I think he needs to be doing  _ school _ at school,” Mrs. Higgins suggested quietly to her husband.

Mr. Higgins nodded. “Right, that’s what I’m saying.”

“I meant to hang out, not for the project,” Race repeated.

“Are you sure you think that’s a good idea, bud? You two don’t exactly have a smooth history.”

“Wh— yeah, we’re fine,” Race answered.

Mrs. Higgins nodded cautiously. “You two certainly seem to be getting along better...”

Mr. Higgins huffed quietly. “I’m not sure if just not fighting counts as ‘getting along’.”

Race bit back a sigh, sinking further into his chair and poking at the remains of his dinner with his fork.

“Let’s not talk about this, now,” Mrs. Higgins suggested. “We can talk about it after dinner.”

* * *

“Rachel for God’s sake, he  _ broke his nose _ .”

“That was ten years ago!”

“Alright, how about six weeks ago when he nearly did it again?”

About halfway up the stairs, just past where the wall cut off and the open railing started, Race leaned forward to hug his bent legs against his chest, with his feet resting on the step just below the one he was sitting on.

“Or how about four weeks ago when he saved Tony’s life?” Mrs. Higgins shot back. “Joel, without this boy, Tony could be  _ dead _ .”

Mr. Higgins huffed. “That doesn’t change the fact that ‘this boy’ has a history of violence.”

“So does Tony.”

“So why would we let him intentionally go into a situation that’s been known to aggravate that?”

“Because he’s eighteen, and he’s doing well, and I will  _ not _ push him further away from me than I already have,” Mrs. Higgins snapped.

Race pressed his lips into a tight line as Mr. Higgins sputtered for a moment. “What pushing away?”

“He’s an adult, Joel. We can’t tell him what to do forever.”

“Rachel, he may be eighteen but he’s still a child. He’s still  _ our _ child. Isn’t it our job to keep him safe?”

She scoffed. “Because we’ve done such an  _ excellent _ job of that.”

Race could tell by the tone of his voice that Mr. Higgins was gritting his teeth. “We have to  _ try _ .”

“And locking him away like a princess in a tower is the answer!?”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting!”

“What are you suggesting?”

But Race didn’t want to hear what his father was suggesting. He got up and moved quickly but quietly back up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door behind him, careful to turn the handle so it didn’t click when it latched. He could still hear their voices, but the words were too muffled to make anything out. A few minutes passed, as Race fidgeted unhappily and they showed no sign of slowing. He needed a distraction, so he pulled out his phone, and after about half a second of consideration, he hit Spot’s contact and put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Spot answered after a few rings.

“Hey, it’s me.” That was stupid. “Race.” Also stupid. Caller ID was a thing.

Sure enough, Spot scoffed. “Yeah, I know, dipshit.”

Race rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“You need something?” Spot asked. Race could hear the TV on in the background, but it sounded far away.

“Uh, not really...” He suddenly felt like this had been a rather bad and definitely awkward idea.

“Uh...okay.” Spot didn’t sound too bothered, at least. There was a short shuffle, and then the noise from the TV began to fade away completely. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, mostly.” Race crossed his room to sit down on the side of his bed. “Not great, but you know.”

“I guess.” The sound of a door opening and closing and a little trill that sounded like it came from Lizzie. He had gone to his room, then.

Race flopped backwards on the bed, leaving his legs hanging off the side and reaching up to push a hand through his hair. “My folks are fighting...”

“Oh. Shit.” There was a brief pause. “I could come get you, but I think my existence would make everything worse.”

This offer pulled a smile onto Race’s face, and he wriggled a bit in an effort to expend the little burst of useless energy that always bubbles up in your stomach when your crush does something super cute. “Yeah, probably not the best idea.”

“You just need a distraction.”

“Yeah… D’you mind? I can bug Albert if you don’t want—”

“Nah, I don’t mind.”

Race wriggled again. “Cool, thanks.”

“So...you just want to talk about anything, or...?”

“Yeah, anything’s fine.” He was glad Spot wanted to talk, but now that it was settled, he wasn’t sure what to talk about.

There was a brief pause, and then, “What’s your favorite food?”

Race let out an amused exhale. “Gnocchi. It’s, like, double carbs. What’s yours?”

“I don’t know—tacos?” Spot answered lamely.

Race scoffed. “You don’t have a favorite food?”

“I just said tacos.”

“Yeah, you just pulled that out of your ass.”

“I did not!” Race could hear a little smile in Spot’s voice. “I do like tacos.”

“Uh-huh, sure you do. Favorite color?”

“Red.”

Race snickered. “Of course it is.”

“Ey, what’s a’ supposed to mean?”

“You’ve seen Inside Out, right?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Spot scoffed. “Okay, asshole. What’s yours?”

“I like blue,” Race replied, grinning.

“‘Course you so,” Spot quipped. “Looks all pretty with your eyes an’ shit.”

Race bit back a giggle. “Aww, you think I’m pretty?”

“Shut up. You  _ know _ you’re fuckin’ pretty.”

This time he didn’t manage to catch the giggle. “You say so all the time, so I guess I gotta believe it at this point.”

“Like you didn’t already.”

He giggled some more. “Yeah, I’m pretty gorgeous.”

“You’re somethin’, alright.”

“And you’re an ass,” Race retorted, grinning.

“Mm, you like me, though.” Race could practically hear him wink.

Race bit his lip as the smile spread wider. “Yeah, says who?”

“Says you, dumbass.”

“...Oh yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

Spot chuckled. “Yeah, you did.”

“Man, I gotta learn to watch my mouth.” Race snickered.

“You’re just now figuring that out?”

“Guess I don’t have great self awareness.”

Spot hummed, probably in agreement. “You distracted?”

“Aren’t I always?” Race replied, crossing his eyes a bit and looking up so he could see his bangs as he fidgeted. Huh, maybe he  _ did _ need a haircut…

“You know what I mean,” Spot grumbled. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“‘The Great Race’, and no, it’s  _ not _ just ‘cause it’s got my name in it.” It totally was, at least partially.

“I’ve never seen that,” Spot said.

“It’s good. Got the best pie fight in cinematic history and a pretty good sword fight, too.“

“Sounds like your kinda movie.”

“Well, yeah.” Race smirked. “That’s what ‘favorite’ means, stupid. What’s yours?”

“Don’t have one,” Spot sighed. “I don’t watch a lot of movies.”

Race huffed. “God, you’re so boring. Do you just stare at the wall all day?”

“Nah. Sometimes I beat up boys I think are cute.”

This pulled a laugh out of Race. “Does that usually work for you?”

“S’worked out pretty well, so far.”

Race smirked. “So you’re a sadist. Good to know.”

“Now, I don’ know I’d go  _ that _ far...”

“Evidence points to the contrary.”

“Not my fault you’re a fuckin’ brat.”

He laughed, and rolled onto his stomach, turning his head sideways to rest his cheek against the mattress, and letting the phone just sit on the side of his head. At some point, Race realized he was having an actual conversation with Spot, and he was actually enjoying it, and Spot’s hot self wasn’t even there to look at. Weird. “Me being a brat doesn’t make you less of a sadist.”

“No, a sadist would get sexual gratification outta hurting you,” Spot argued. “I get regular, everyday gratification outta putting you in your fuckin’ place.”

“‘My place’, huh? And where’s that?”

“Under my skin, apparently.”

Race snorted, amused. “Hey, you can’t complain, you’re the one putting me there.”

“Are you telling me I could get rid of you, if I tried?” Spot asked, a distinctly teasing lilt to his voice. “Please tell me how.”

Race laughed again. “‘Pparently physical injury ain’t enough of a deterrent, so good luck with that.

“Hm. Guess I’m gonna have to kill ya.”

“What, so you rescue me from yourself? Make it three for three with the life debts?”

“So you agree that you owe me a life debt.”

“You’re the one that said you own me.” Even alone in his room, Race still felt like an idiot for smiling so much. Along with crushes, there always came an almost uncomfortable, fizzy sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he loved it. It was like an allergic reaction to attraction, and sometimes—if whoever it was did something particularly cute or attractive—it was too much, and, just like a shaken up soda bottle, he had to do something to let it out. That ‘something’ was usually wiggling or trying to suffocate himself with a blanket or pillow.

“Damn right I do,” Spot chuckled under his breath.

Race took a moment to press his face into the mattress to drown a giggle. “So that makes me your problem to deal with,” he said, once he came up for air.

“I could always sell you,” Spot said.

Race laughed. “To who? No one’s dumb enough to take that deal.”

“You’re probably right. Guess I really am gonna have to kill ya.”

“You can try. I’m pretty sure I’m immortal. Got my lung popped like a balloon, and that still didn’t do the trick.”

“Damn near did, though...” Spot was suddenly a lot quieter.

“Nah, I’ve survived worse.” Race intentionally kept his tone light and dismissive.

There was quiet for a moment, and Race could hear the still heated conversation between his parents from downstairs. He rolled onto his back again, shoving his hand through his hair. “What’s your favorite uh...” He looked around the room aimlessly, searching for inspiration. “Animal?

“Lizzie,” Spot replied.

“Birds in general, or just her?”

“Just her.”

Race hummed, only half listening. His parents had never fought before—at least not that he’d seen—and it was rather distressing, especially considering that he was the cause.

“Hey, you okay?” Spot asked.

“Hm? Yeah, sorry. ‘M just...not used to my folks fighting.”

“Oh...I’m sorry.” Spot sounded kind of brittle, like he really had no idea what to say. “You sure you don’t need anythin’?”

Race shook his head, then remembered that Spot couldn’t see him. “Nah, I don’t think so. It’s just weird… They aren’t usually like this. I mean, they argue now and then, everyone argues, but they don’t really  _ fight _ .”

“Hm.” There was a moment’s silence on Spot’s end. “I don’t know what to say. You wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t really know what to say, either. It’s just weird, and I feel bad.”

“Why would  _ you _ feel bad?”

“Well it’s my fault, so...”

“How?”

Race rolled over again like a dead fish, onto his stomach. “I asked if I could go hang at your place, and Mom said yeah and Dad said no, and now it’s a whole thing.”

“Oh...so, really, it’s  _ my _ fault.”

“What?” Race frowned. “No, how is that your fault?”

“How is it yours, really?”

“W— cause— it is.”

“No, it’s not,” Spot said. “Tony, I assure you, it’s not.”

Race’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘ _ Tony’?  _ He was mildly annoyed by how nice his name sounded in Spot’s voice, and it took a second for him to remember that he disagreed with the other, less pretty words that had also come out of Spot’s mouth. “No, but it is. This whole situation is on me.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand as if drawing attention to a beach ball that was decidedly not floating beside him.

“Because you asked for something and your parents don’t agree?” Spot asked to clarify. “How does that work?”

“They usually agree,” Race mumbled. “With each other, I mean. Not with me. My dumb ideas get shot down all the time.”

“And this time, they don’t. No one agrees all the time. It’s not the end of the world, Race.”

Race grumbled wordlessly. Spot was being reasonable, and it was difficult to properly disagree with Spot being reasonable.

“Guess I’m not distracting you very well at the moment, huh?” Spot chuckled wanly. “Uh...you ever had any pets? Like, I know you don’t got any now, ‘nless you got, like, one a’ those cats that just hides under the bed or somethin’.”

Race bit his lip as a little smile pushed its way onto his face. It had happened a few times before—Spot putting in effort that was neither aggressive nor sexual—but it was still a little surprising.

“We used to have a big fish tank, but Mom flipped out when I transferred all the fish into the bathtub and used the tank as a lookout turret for a blanket fort.”

Spot laughed. “You what?”

Race sighed in faux-exasperation. “I flipped the tank upside down and supported each corner with a chair and then suspended a few blankets out around it and made a fort. It’s pretty straight forward, Spot. Try to keep up.”

“Oh my god, you’re nuts.” Spot made this sound like it was a great thing.

Race pouted. “Shut up, I’m brilliant.”

“What happened to the fish? God, do you make a habit of abusing animals?”

“I told you, I put them in the bathtub. They were fine. Gave them more room, actually.”

“I know you put them in the bathtub, dumbass. Did they  _ survive? _ ”

“Yes! They enjoyed their vacation and lived the rest of their fishy lives in oblivious bliss ‘cause fish don’t remember things.” Race carried on to correct himself. “Well, one of them died, but that was because there was a turf war, that wasn’t me.”

Spot scoffed. “Right, sure.”

“No, it’s true!” Race whined. “Fish don’t have memories, but they do have turf wars.”

“I’m not arguing,” Spot argued.

“You distinctly are!”

“You’re impossible.”

“Just for you, babe,” Race teased, and immediately regretted it. Then Spot laughed, and Race wasn’t really sure what he had been afraid of. It was nice, just talking to him. Sure the distraction was good, but aside from that, it was just nice. Other than being devastatingly sexy, Spot was pretty smart, funny too, and he had a way of being surprisingly nice at very unexpected moments. The less he thought about it, the more Race liked him, and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Nothing says budding romance like a solid left hook and a constant volley of bullshit.

* * *

At about one o'clock in the morning, Race woke up. He groaned and rolled out of bed, knowing he'd never get back to sleep if he didn't go get a drink of water or something. He trudged down the stairs, quietly grumbling nonsense to himself, and stopped on the last few steps, surprised to see his father, with a blanket and pillow, asleep on the couch.

His first thought was ‘ _ oh shit, people actually do that? I thought it was a movie thing _ …’ His second thought was guilt. No matter how indirect, and despite Spot's argument, this was his fault.

Again.

He'd made dumb choices, driving the stakes higher and higher as The Idiot Express plowed on, regardless of the folks tied to the railroad track ahead. Of course he didn't throw the lever to change tracks. He didn't even think about the lever.

Quickly and quietly, Race moved to the kitchen, coming to a stop against the counter and gripping the edge. He took a slow breath, trying to calm the rush in his head. His parents hardly ever argued, and when they did it was usually solved and forgiven within the hour—no yelling, no damage, no lasting consequences—but now, they clearly went to bed still angry, and nothing was solved, otherwise Mr. Higgins wouldn't be sleeping on the couch.

He took another breath, trying to rationalize. It wasn't a huge thing. It wasn't his fault. He'd asked to go to Spot's house, and they'd disagreed. It was small. Of course, if he hadn't assumed the animosity between himself and Spot was still lasting after ten years, then he wouldn't have fought with him so much, then he wouldn't have gotten hurt, and Mr. and Mrs. Higgins wouldn't have been on high alert to keep him safe, then they wouldn't have argued about him going to Spot's place to work on the paper, then his mom wouldn't have gotten so upset, then he wouldn't have heard, and he wouldn't have panicked, and he wouldn't have run off, then they wouldn't be even more scared, then he wouldn't be so wound up that he harassed a stranger into stabbing him, then Spot wouldn't have had to save his life, and he wouldn't have gone to the hospital, and then The Refuge, then his parents wouldn't be even  _ more _ scared and protective, then they wouldn't be so worried about him spending time with Spot, then they wouldn't have disagreed as to whether he could go or not, then they wouldn't have fought, then Mr. Higgins wouldn't be sleeping on the couch—

"You okay, bud?"

Race had been so busy scowling at the counter that he hadn’t noticed his father coming to stand in the doorway.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Higgins said, voice thick with sleep. He walked over to Race. “You okay?

“Yeah,” he answered automatically. “Just worried, I guess.”

“Whatcha worried about?”

“You ‘n mom.”

Mr. Higgins frowned, and after a moment’s deliberation, he came to stand beside Race. “Don’t you worry about me an’ your mom. Everyone argues, sometimes.”

“Well yeah, sure, but...” Race frowned. He’d seen his parents disagree before, and he’d seen the occasional argument, but they never  _ fought _ . No one went to bed angry, everything was figured out and fixed. As bothered as he was by the whole situation, he was mostly surprised. In his whole life, Race had never seen anyone in love the way Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were. They were practically a real life Hallmark movie, college meet-cute and everything. Race never thought anything could get in the way, or mess that up. But lo and behold, something could, and that something was him.

Mr. Higgins sighed. “Tony, there’s only one thing in the world that I love more than your mom, and that’s you. You’re the one thing I can’t compromise on.”

“I don’t want you guys to fight ‘cause of me...”

“I know. But that’s what parents do.”

Race frowned again. “Are you still mad at Mom?”

Mr. Higgins hesitated before answering, “No, I’m not mad at your mom.” He put his arm around Race’s shoulders and pulled him into his side. “I’m not mad at you, either. You know that?”

Race looked at him, confused. “Why not?”

“Because you’re an eighteen year old boy, and you’re making mistakes and learning.” Mr. Higgins smiled. “You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to.”

“I’m why everything’s so messed up though.”

Then Mr. Higgins’ expression darkened. “No, you’re not.”

“I am!” Race argued. “If I hadn’t assumed Spot was evil, none of this would’ve happened! Everything he said was just coincidence, and I twisted it and jumped down his throat.”

“I think you’re reaching pretty far there, bud.”

He shook his head. “I started it.”

Mr. Higgins pressed his lips together unhappily. “My job is to worry about you, bud, not Sean.”

“I’m not saying you should worry about him, I’m saying he’s not to blame,” Race grumbled.

“Maybe he’s not,” Mr. Higgins conceded. “He still hurt you.”

“Shouldn’t he get the ‘dumb eighteen year old’ defense, too?” Race asked.

Mr. Higgins shook his head. “Not from me. Not him. Not anyone who hurts my boy.”

“I hurt him, too!” Race argued, exasperated.

“I know.” Mr. Higgins leaned his cheek on Race’s head.

Race huffed quietly, not sure how to properly defend Spot. Mr. Higgins was biased, of course, but it was unfair. Sure, Spot had bullied him when they were kids, but that was forever ago. People change, and Race hadn’t given him the chance to show it. He’d assumed animosity, and if anything  _ he _ was the aggressor, now. He’d kicked up shit every chance he got, and Spot reacted the way anyone would—but then he also saved Race’s life. He helped him, he protected him, he comforted him. Race didn’t have a good way to explain any of that to his father.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Mr. Higgins asked quietly.

Race’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Uh...”

Mr. Higgins chuckled once. “Your mom is right. You’re an adult, and I can’t stop you. Just don’t...” He held Race a little tighter. “Don’t grow up  _ too _ fast, okay?”

This made Race feel oddly even more guilty than before. “I’m sorry, Dad, about everything...”

“Don’t be.” Mr. Higgins placed a kiss on top of Race’s hair. “I love you so much, buddy.”

Race turned a bit so he could hug him. “I love you too, Dad.”

He understood his father’s dislike of Spot. It made sense. Race had painted Spot as the villain, and then, over the course of a week, everything changed. His parents weren’t really around to  _ see _ that change—thank God—so, from their point of view, Race was throwing wildly contrasting stories at them left and right, and naturally they adhered to the side of protecting their child. Mrs. Higgins seemed to be warming up to Spot, at least a bit, and Race was very relieved by that. Joel Higgins, on the other hand, was a steadfast man, and his wife was one of the only people in the world that could get him to change his mind. Race was a bit surprised to realize how much he hoped his parents would properly forgive and accept Spot. Mr. Higgins was right; he  _ did _ really like him. Race frequently forgot that other people were proper people, with lives and emotions just as complex and real as his own, but as time went on, Spot was evolving from a pint-sized punching machine to a fully actualized—and upsettingly attractive—person. The kind of person that Race wanted to understand and learn about. The kind of person that he could fall in love with. 


	39. Drunk Boys Saying Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s it. That’s all this is.

“Ohmygod look look look there he is.” Jack peered out of his second-story window like a total creeper. “Is he not the most beautiful,  _ resplendent _ individual ever to grace this planet?” He sighed wistfully. “I wonder what his dick tastes like.”

“Probably like a dick,” Albert replied boredly.

Race scoffed. “You don’t know what dick tastes like, in the first place.”

“No, but I doubt there’s much variety!”

“You’d be surprised,” Jack and Race answered in unison, and Jack took it upon himself to explain, “Has to do with, like, diet and stuff.”

“Mm,” Race frowned in disagreement, “I’d say that more affects the cum taste.”

Albert groaned unhappily.

“Cum taste is directly related to dick taste,” Jack argued.

“No way, totally different things.” Race shook his head. “Dick taste is genetic, same with any other body taste. Or like how some people naturally smell good to you and some don’t. Hormones and whatever. Cum taste is affected by the environment and diet.”

“Okay who the fuck cares?  _ Look at him! _ ” Jack snapped, turning back to the window.

From Jack’s bedroom window, one could see into the next-door neighbors’ front yard, where Crutchie was playing with a boy who looked slightly younger than him under the supervision of Jack’s latest obsession.

Albert snorted, amused. “You sending Charlie in to infiltrate the front line?”

“He’s cute and polite, and the little brother’s ten, so it works out,” Jack said, never taking his eyes off David.

Race snickered. “Strategic.”

Jack whined pathetically, smashing his cheek against the window. “Why doesn’t he love meeeee?”

“Cause you’re a creep,” Albert answered matter of factly.

“But I’m hooottttt.”

Race and Albert spoke almost in unison. “Debatable.”

Jack was suddenly all business as he turned around with a contemplative frown on his face. “Race, how did I get you into bed?”

Race burst into laughter and Albert groaned again, putting his face into his hands.

“No, no, I’m serious!” Jack insisted.

“You asked nicely,” Race replied, still giggling.

Albert scoffed. “I doubt it.”

Jack threw his hands up in exasperation. “Well,  _ clearly _ I’m gonna have to be a bit more subtle with this one.” He fell back onto his bed and looked up at the ceiling.

Race laughed again. “Could it be, the great Jack Kelly has finally found himself outmatched?”

“Absolutely not,” Jack shot back. “I  _ will _ get David Jacobs if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Y’know...” Race tapped at his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Speaking of what dicks taste like.”

* * *

It occurred to Race, as he lifted his hand to knock on the front door, that he didn’t know if Spot’s aunt worked weekends or not, so it was entirely possible that she might be home on a Sunday afternoon. He supposed it didn’t really matter. The worst she could do was tell him to go away. Well, no, he supposed the  _ worst _ thing she could do was kill him on sight, or perhaps prolonged torture would be even worse than that. He reached out to knock again, looking at his hand and absently considering what sort of horrific tortures could be easily performed with household items. While he was mulling over the many exciting possibilities, Spot opened the door.

“Race?” Spot asked softly, leaning against the doorframe. “What are you doin’ here?”

Race looked up from considering the delicate bones in his hand and watching them move as he wiggled his fingers. “Oh, hey Spot,” he greeted, completely ignoring his question.

“Hey,” Spot parroted.

“You busy?”

Spot shook his head. “Nah.” He stepped back out of the doorway, giving Race room to step in.

Race followed him inside and gently kicked the door shut behind him. “‘S your aunt home?”

“Nope,” Spot said, and it was then that Race noticed the faint smell of alcohol. “She works Sundays.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, amused, and smiled. “Wanna hang out?”

“Sure.” Spot headed towards the kitchen. “I got booze. You want some?”

Race laughed now, and followed him. “Yeah, okay.”

“You like rum and Coke?”

“I wouldn’t say I  _ like _ it, but it’ll get the job done.”

“Ah, you’re one of those.” Spot grabbed a glass from the cupboard and began fixing Race’s drink.

“One of what?” Race moved over to lean back against the counter, watching Spot.

“You get drunk just to get drunk.”

“Well yeah, booze is gross.” Race kicked lightly off the ground, half jumping and half lifting himself up with his arms to sit on the countertop.

“You’re not drinkin’ good booze, then,” Spot said, passing him his drink and replenishing his own.

Race scoffed quietly, smirking. “Or I still have functioning taste buds.” Before he even took a drink he twisted his mouth as if he’d tasted something sour. “Who came up with that, anyway? ‘Taste buds’. Fuckin’ awful.”

Spot made a face. “Whaddayou mean?”

“‘S a gross word, or concept, or whatever. ‘Taste buds’.”

“You sure you ‘aven’t been drinking already?” Spot snickered. A blinding grin spread across his face.

Race smiled as well, like Spot’s was contagious. “Not today, no.”

“You’re cute.” Spot leaned back against the counter, taking a drink without glancing away from Race for so much as a second.

Race’s smile spread into a grin of his own. “And you’re drunk.”

“No, I’m buzzed,” Spot laughed. “You’d know if I was drunk.”

Race snickered and took a drink. “What are you like when you’re drunk?”

Spot smirked. “You wanna find out?”

* * *

Surprising no one, least of all Spot, once alcohol entered the equation, things got handsy at record speed. Spot didn’t quite remember walking up the stairs to his room, sitting down on the edge of his bed, and getting a lapful of leggy, blond, Italian boy, but this was the opposite of a problem, as far as he was concerned. He slid his hands up the back of Race’s shirt and flattened his palms against the small of Race’s back, coaxing him closer. Race was a good brat. He put up just the right amount of resistance to keep things interesting while making it clear that he was, in fact, absolutely down to fuck. Spot wasn’t a sadist, despite what Race believed. He wanted to make Race feel good, and he wanted to do it his way, and if the last couple times were anything to go by, Spot’s way worked.

His train of thought was interrupted as Race nuzzled into the crook of his neck, pressing light kisses against his collarbone as his hands wandered up the front of Spot’s shirt. Spot’s breath hitched, and he let his head fall back to give Race better access. Leaving one hand on Race’s back, he buried the other in his hair, which was honestly just a habit at this point. Race shifted in his lap, pressing closer as he started to mouth his way up his neck. The smell of rum and coke and Race permeated everything, and it was good. It was really, really good. 

Spot planted his feet on the floor and twisted so that Race was underneath him, and Race got a grip on the front of Spot’s shirt to pull him down for a kiss. The world around them was a little dull and blunted from the alcohol, but Race was still electric, and Spot responded in kind, harder, pressing Race into the bed. Race whined appreciatively and slid his hands down Spot’s chest to tangle in the hem of his shirt, kissing him almost desperately.

Later, sober, Spot would consider how he was definitely getting addicted to Race—his body, of course, but also his smile, his quick mind, his inability to take anything seriously for more than two minutes. At the time, however, Spot was much too focused on getting Race’s clothes off.

He stood up straight, pulling Race’s shirt up over his stomach, and Race sat up to make the process easier. As soon as his shirt was discarded, he reached to unbutton Spot’s jeans. Spot pulled his own shirt off and tossed it to the floor by Race’s, then took Race’s face in his hands, tilting his head up slightly and brushing his thumbs over his cheekbones. Even now, Spot occasionally found himself caught off-guard by how  _ pretty _ he was.

Race huffed quietly, amused, and smiled that dumb, smug smile that always left Spot feeling like he’d missed the start of some inside joke.

“Whaaat?” Spot asked.

”Nah, it's jus’ funny.” Race smirked, settling his hands on the bed behind him and leaning back against his braced arms. “You got this whole Mr. Tough Guy front goin’, but it’s total bullshit.”

“Is it, now?”

“Yeah, you’re soft as fuck.”

“Well, maybe I just like takin’ care a’ what’s mine,” Spot said lowly, leaning in to not quite kiss Race.

Race sat up quickly to close the short distance between them, just barely catching a kiss before Spot could straighten up out of reach. “Nah, you’re just all lovey.” He grinned smugly.

Spot huffed. “What? You want me t’ stop?”

Race held his hands up in surrender. “No no, I didn’t say that, I just said you’re full of shit.” He snickered.

“ _ You’re _ fulla shit,” Spot grumbled back, leaning in to kiss Race again. It was the best his drunk mind could do on such short notice.

Race laughed as Spot kissed him, and for some reason it was more adorable than irritating. “I’m serious, though; you’re actually, like, nice ‘n shit, so why do you act like an asshole?”

Growing impatient, Spot pushed Race down onto his back. “I only act like an asshole,” he explained, “when people are assholes to me.”

“Oh, so it’s a defense mechanism?”

“More of a reaction.”

Race twisted his mouth and looked off into the distance thoughtfully. “‘S not how I remember it going in third grade. I didn’t do shit to you, ‘n you broke my face.”

Now, a sober Spot may have conceded this point, blamed it on youthful stupidity, and moved on. Drunk Spot, on the other hand, never thought about his words until five minutes after they left his mouth. In the middle of nuzzling and kissing Race’s shoulder, he scoffed. “You think you’re the only one who got punched for being a faggot? Guarantee ya my stepdad threw a better punch than my scrawny, eight-year-old ass.”

He felt Race tense up and wiggle a bit backwards. “Wait, what?”

Spot looked up at him, annoyed. “What?”

Race was frowning, eyebrows knit in concerned confusion. “I didn’t know you had a stepdad...” Though, judging by the look on his face, that wasn’t at all the part of the story he was surprised by.

Spot propped himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, I got a stepdad.”

Race just looked at him, expecting him to say more.

“Uh...” Spot frowned. “‘S name’s Mark?”

“What happened?” Race asked softly.

“Whaddayou mean, ‘what happened’?”

Race sat up as much as he could, considering Spot’s placement over him. “Dude, you basically jus’ said your stepdad hit you.”

“He did,” Spot retorted. “What about it?”

Race sputtered, properly sitting up now and shoving Spot off in doing so. “Whaddayou mean, ‘what about it’!?”

Spot paused, thrown by this sudden change in tone, then shrugged. “He’s a jackass.”

“That’s seriously fucked up.”

Spot shrugged again. “I ain’t his. Why should he care?”

Race’s frown deepened. “He should care.”

Spot didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he was thinking—he was thinking, but everything was a jumbled up mess. He shook his head. “Race, I—”

“Is this why you’re so interested in all the conflict theory shit?”

Spot blinked. He’d never seen Race like this—all serious and worried. “Yeah.”

“D’you wanna talk about it?”

Spot opened his mouth to answer, but Race continued quickly. “It can really help, sometimes. I don’t mean like therapy or anything, but like, if it’s someone that cares...”

Spot sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t drunk enough for this, yet. “What’s there to talk about?” He tossed his hand and let it fall in a resigned sort of gesture. “I had a crush on a cute little blond boy, and he didn’t like it.”

He avoided Race’s gaze, after that, and was a little bit surprised when he felt Race’s hand settle gently on his arm.

“I’m really sorry, Sean. That’s awful.”

“‘S just life,” he responded tightly.

Race gently squeezed his arm. “If you wanna talk...” His voice was soft, gentle and caring. Spot hadn’t heard him like this before. Hell, Spot hadn’t heard  _ anyone _ like this before. Of course, he’d never told anybody. He had convinced himself it wasn’t something worth talking about, just a fact of life and nature and evolution. Then Race came crashing back into his life with his perfect family and knocked down the pillars that held up Spot’s entire belief that his own experience, though unpleasant, was normal.

He chanced a look at Race, and the look in his eyes hit even harder than the tone in his voice. Race was looking at him,  _ really _ looking at him, in a way he never had before. It was like he could see into Spot’s head—all the anger, the hurt, the loneliness, the jealousy, and the fear. It was like he could see it all, and he still saw something worth looking at. There was no pity, or distaste, just a look of sincere empathy.

Spot reached out to brush Race’s hair out of his eyes. “Guess we’re all a little fucked up, huh?”

After a second, Race caught ahold of his hand and gently brought it back down, but didn’t let go. “I guess so...”

The warmth that blossomed outwards from Spot’s chest was probably from all the alcohol. He placed his free hand on the back of Race’s neck and pressed a lingering kiss on his forehead, because he could. Before he had a chance to properly shift back, Race tilted his face up towards Spot’s and gently captured his lips, letting go of his hand so he could cup Spot’s jaw in both of his. Spot moved his hand to Race’s side, protectively covering the knife scar just below his ribs, and let Race guide him for a moment. It was so, so, gentle, and so, so nice to be handled gently.

Race pressed closer to him, not in the demanding, hungry way he usually did, but softly, like he was seeking shelter, or comfort. Or perhaps he was the one offering. It didn’t feel like they were careening full-speed towards sex anymore, and surprisingly, Spot was okay with that. Kissing Race was good. Holding Race was good. Being with Race was good.


	40. Who Needs Books (When You Have the Power of the Pouch)?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot sits with Race’s crew at lunch, Race is an idiot, and Jack is a mess.

“Hey, d’you wanna sit with me at lunch?” Race slid across the hallway like a bumper-car gone rogue, lightly crashing into Spot and not quite knocking him into the lockers.

Spot laughed lightly, grinning. “I don’ know, blondie. Red might throw a fit and try to stab me in the eye with one a’ those little Capri-Sun straws.”

Race laughed. “He’s harmless. That’s a lie, he basically body slammed Morris Delancey into a wall last spring when he came at me for covering his bike pedals in chunky peanut butter and fucking up his new shoes.”

“‘Course you did,” Spot scoffed.

“I have a reputation to uphold,” Race retorted loftily. “So are you gonna sit with us or what?”

* * *

Race had very intentionally placed himself and half the table between Albert and Spot, but it still felt a good bit like Albert was trying to set Spot’s hair on fire with the rage burning behind his eyes. Spot didn’t seem bothered by this at all. In fact, he seemed rather amused. Race however, was quite uncomfortable. At this point, he was only mildly surprised to realize how much he cared about whether or not Spot and his friends got along. Liking Spot as a person, rather than a good fuck and nothing more, was still a new concept to Race, but it was definitely, solidly there. He wanted Spot around, and that meant he had to get along with the guys.

At least Jack didn’t seem to mind Spot’s presence, though Race wasn’t entirely sure Jack even noticed Spot’s presence. Almost as soon as he reached the table, he laid his head down on it and whined pathetically.

Race looked at him silently for a moment before snorting in amusement. “You okay, Jackaboy?”

“If David Jacobs doesn’t love me, I’m going to kill myself,” Jack lamented, and Albert rolled his eyes so hard.

Race snorted again. “Bitch, he doesn’t even know you.”

“It was love at first sight.”

“You sure he saw you?” Albert asked.

“Of course he’s  _ seen _ me.” Jack lifted his head up to argue with Albert, but his gaze got stuck on Spot. “What’s he doing here?”

“Having lunch, same as everyone,” Race answered, not quite pouting.

Jack made a small, back and forth gesture between the two of them. “This a thing, now?”

Race felt his cheeks heat up as he glanced quickly at Spot, and then back to Jack, but he hesitated to answer, wondering what Spot’s take on it was. Spot just raised his eyebrows and looked to Race.

“No.” Race tried not to sound disappointed. “What, I’m not allowed to invite other people to eat lunch with us?”

“Oh, forget him.” Albert waved at Jack. “He’s hopeless.”

“Kinda hard to, when he’s so loud,” Race grumbled as Jack continued to whine on the table.

“Seriously, though.” Albert glared at Spot. “Why is he here?”

Race rolled his eyes heavily as he turned his gaze to Spot. “Sorry ‘bout them. I’m basically an asshole magnet.” He cringed. “Ooh, that doesn’t sound very good. I meant, like, personality wise.”

Spot laughed. “Maybe you’re both.”

Race cringed more. “Gross.”

Spot scrunched up his nose for a moment, like a little silent snicker, and turned back to his food, and Race nearly passed out. Some little thing like that shouldn’t be that hot—which applied to Spot in general, to be fair.

When Race faced forward again, Albert was shooting him a death glare.

“What?”

Albert nodded towards Spot, and Race rolled his eyes again.

“Dude, relax.”

“Why is he here?”

Race threw his hands up in frustration. “Goddamn, am I not allowed to sit with someone who isn’t you?”

“When that someone is Spot fucking Conlon.”

Spot let out a little huff.

“Oh my goddd,” Race groaned. “What did he ever do to you?”

“He punched you in the face!” Albert shot back.

“That’s what he did to  _ me! _ ”

“One of the many things.”

Race smirked, letting out a small huff of amusement. “Still ain’t any reason for you to be all pissy.”

Albert shook his head. “You’re such a dumb slut. You know that?”

Now Spot did look up, and he didn’t look amused anymore. “Excuse me?”

Race looked over at Spot, a bit surprised by his sudden engagement in the conversation.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Albert replied as one corner of his mouth twisted slightly, not quite into a snarl.

“Too bad,” Spot snapped. “ _ I’m _ talking to  _ you _ .”

Albert looked at him for a second and scoffed, much in the way one does when someone tries to square up against you in your area of expertise. Spot didn’t back down, though. He never broke eye contact. He barely even blinked.

Race huffed quietly. “Jesus, will you guys calm down? It’s not a fucking turf war.”

Jack raised his head again, looking to Albert. “Yeah, can we talk about  _ my _ problems?” He gestured to Race. “At least Race is gettin’ some.”

Race laughed. “Jesus Christ, Kelly, just fuckin’ ask him out!”

“But what if he turns me down, again?”

“Well, maybe don’t open with ‘let’s fuck’ this time.”

“Yeah, that only works on a specific type of person.” Albert smirked.

Jack tossed his hands in the air. “Well, what else is there?”

“‘What else is there’?” Race scoffed. “You should write a book—‘How to Offend People in Five Syllables or Less’. There’s so much more to a person than just fucking!”

Now it was Albert’s turn to scoff. “That’s pretty rich, coming from you.”

Race rolled his eyes. “It’s all about the context, Bertie Boy.  _ I _ don’t need to look past the fucking, ‘cause usually that’s all it is. Jack actually likes this guy, even though he doesn’t know shit about him, so he needs to find a connection. It’s really very simple.” He glanced to the side and found Spot watching him, eyes narrowed slightly, but as soon as their eyes met, Spot looked away.

Race tried not to wince. That had probably sounded a lot worse to everyone else than it did to him. He had said ‘usually’, and Spot definitely wasn’t a ‘usual’ guy, but maybe Spot didn’t know that. Race hadn’t meant to make it sound like Spot was just one of his many frivolous flings, but he didn’t want to just come out and say how he really felt, either. Race wasn’t even entirely sure how he really felt, to begin with. He’d had plenty of crushes before, plenty of boyfriends, even a girlfriend once, but something about Spot was different. Race was always very aware of Spot’s presence when he entered a room, or where he was in the room. Maybe it was just residual fight or flight response, but the new bit was how starkly he noted his absence. It was like Spot pulled all the air with him when he left the room, and Race didn’t know how to get it back on his own. Jack had asked if ‘this was a thing’, and Race said ‘no’, but that was only because Spot didn’t say ‘yes’. They hadn’t really talked about what any of this even was. Every time they tried, they just ended up making out instead, and while Race had absolutely no problem with that, it  _ is _ rather difficult to have a real conversation when you have someone else’s tongue in your mouth. Race knew that this wasn’t a ‘usual’ situation for him; it meant more than that, but what if Spot didn’t feel the same way? Then everything would be ruined. Sadly, intent doesn’t mean jack shit, and while he had the director's cut, Spot and the others had to get by without annotations. So, without all the angsty ‘will they, won’t they’ and pining in the margins, it had probably come across as pretty harsh.

“I don’t even know if he’s into guys,” Jack sighed, oblivious to Race’s inner turmoil. “...I should start saving for a sex change, just in case.”

“That’s a pretty big jump for ‘just in case’ with a guy you don’t even know,” Albert said.

“He’s not ‘a guy I don’t even know’,” Jack shot back. “He’s an actual angel from Heaven.”

“Who you still don’t know. You’re completely hopeless.”

“You’re right. I should just bury myself.”

“Wouldn’t that get you even farther from Heaven, though?” Race interjected.

“You would know, church boy.”

“Just cause I go to church doesn’t make me a church boy!” he protested.

“Oh yeah?” Spot asked, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his face. “What makes you a church boy?”

Race grinned maliciously. “If you’re Catholic, that would be deacon dick. Otherwise,” he twirled his hand in a generalizing motion, “pep.”

Spot deadpanned, “Pep?”

“Y’know, like enthusiasm, but obnoxious.”

“I know. What does that have to do with church?”

Race scoffed. “Y’ever been to church camp?”

“Dude, I’ve never been to  _ church _ .”

“Exactly.” Race booped Spot’s nose with his index finger. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Spot recoiled, sputtering, and faced forward again. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Race thought he was trying not to smile.

Race didn’t quite manage to push his grin back to reasonable levels as he turned towards Jack and Albert again. “You know, those crazy intense youth group kids that’ll lose their shit if you even hold someone’s hand, with the millennial parents and the wacky names that are, like, things instead of names. All ‘my name’—” He sputtered for a moment, trying to think of a thing that could feasibly be a name and coming up empty. “‘My name’s Sprite Pepsi, and I’m abstinent until I die!’”

“Gross,” Albert chuckled, pulling three Capri-Suns out of his backpack and distributing them to Race, Jack, and himself. Reluctantly, he pulled out a fourth and passed it to Spot.

“Do you even  _ have _ books, or do you alchemize them all into more Capri-Suns?” Race asked.

Albert waved him off. “Who needs books, when you have the power of the pouch?”

“That just sounds like you’re some sorta marsupial,” Jack mumbled into the table.

Albert frowned down at him. “Dude, are you gonna eat?”

“I’m on a hunger strike.”

* * *

Spot had a hard time focusing on any of his classes after lunch. When Jack asked if ‘this was a thing now’, Spot hadn’t realized he wanted Race to say ‘yes’ until he said ‘no’, and now it was all he could think about. He actually liked Race. He actually liked Race  _ a lot _ . And then there was that shit he said about ‘just fucking’. It’s not that Spot was offended. If that’s all it was to Race, that’s all it was, and Spot wouldn’t hold it against him, but...shit.

At the end of the day, he slammed his locker shut with a heavy sigh and started down the hallway, pulling his backpack on as he went. The hallway buzzed with the usual droning of the crowd as everyone headed out the main doors, and just as he made it down the steps to the parking lot, Spot caught a familiar voice in all the hubbub.

“Spot, wait!”

He stopped, turning to see Race sliding down the metal railing on the steps, nearly crashing into three freshmen when he stumbled on landing.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

One of them flipped him off, but Race had already turned away towards Spot. “Hey man.” He was breathing a little heavily, like he had just been running.

“Hey,” Spot replied, happy to see him in spite of everything. “What’s goin’ on? You need something?”

“Hey,” Race repeated. “D’you got a second to talk?”

“Yeah, I don’t do anything, remember?”

He chuckled a little breathlessly. “Right.”

“Come on, let’s get out of the way.” Spot took a gentle hold of Race’s wrist and led him over to the side of the path.

Race followed easily, and surprisingly quietly. This was mildly concerning. Once they were safely out of the flow of traffic, Spot looked to him to start talking.

Race exhaled roughly. “Sorry ‘bout lunch.”

Spot shrugged. “Hey, I know Red hates me. It’s not like I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, Albert’s an asshole, I meant...” He trailed off awkwardly.

Spot instinctively stepped a little closer, angling himself between Race and the crowd of students on their way home. As if pulled by a magnet, Race shifted towards him. Judging by the look on his face, it was clear he wanted to say something, but had no idea how to say it.

“Come on.” Spot smirked intentionally, trying to put him at ease. “I’ve seen you naked. You can tell me.”

Race huffed, amused, and ran a hand up through his hair, leaving it to rest on the back of his neck. “You’d think I’d have my ‘sorry for being a dickhead’ speech down by now.”

Spot pressed his lips together and dropped his gaze to the ground. So this was about that. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Nah, I just don’t want you to think— When me an’ Al were joking about the whole ‘just fucking or genuine interest’ thing, I didn’t—” He frowned, suddenly very interested in his own shoelaces. “I didn’t mean, like, about you, specifically.”

“I—...” Spot shook his head. “I don’t know what that means, Tony.”

“No, yeah, I just meant, like, you’re not—” A light flush spread across Race’s cheeks as he stared resolutely at the ground, fidgeting with a few curls just behind his ear. “I don’t think about you like that.”

“Like—” Spot didn’t want to hope Race was saying he was more than just a fuck buddy, not when he could mean the opposite with the way he was stammering. “Race, if this,” he gestured between them, “is just sex to you, that’s...whatever, I get it. You don’t have to—”

“No, shut up, I mean the other way.” He was blushing even brighter now.

Spot caught the relieved smile that darted onto his face just a second too late. “Right, cool. Well...”

Race glanced at him briefly through his lashes before looking at the ground again, and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Anyway, I should probably—”

“Yeah, of course.” Spot moved out of his way. “I’ll...see you tomorrow.”

Race nodded, “Yeah,” and he cast another short glance at Spot before quickly disappearing into the remnants of the crowd.


	41. Race Is a Relentless Horny Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot takes Race on a real date, and it goes about how you’d expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’ve been bad about replying to comments recently, but I promise I read them all!

Compared to the general chaos that seemed to be the common theme of the semester, the week was oddly quiet and dull. Wednesday night was week six of Pastor Buttons’ Threesome with Jesus sermon series, and it still seemed oddly quiet without Sarah Louison there to complain that Race was contaminating the room with evil, gay energy. Thursday was quiet, too, but Race spent a good portion of the day being distracted by Spot—either in the various, idle fantasies that had wound their way into his brain, or in class and at lunch, where he kept shooting looks towards Race and then looking away as soon as Race made eye contact. Once the final bell rang, Race headed to his locker to load his backpack with the various homework assignments that other kids were paying him to do for them. It was easy work and easy money, but the sheer amount of them made it time consuming and mildly annoying. Once he’d managed to cram everything into his bag, Race kicked the locker shut with his heel as he turned to head down the still rather crowded hallway towards the doors. He didn’t make it far before he heard Spot’s voice somewhere within the throng.

”Hey, Race!”

He stopped, looking around as the flood of students continued past him, and Spot appeared at his side after being shoulder checked by a passing student.

“Ey, watch it,” Spot grumbled.

“To be fair, he probably didn’t see you,” Race teased, smirking. He had more or less come to terms with the fact that he had feelings for Spot, but he still felt a little silly in regards to the light, bubbly feeling in his stomach that always popped up when Spot was around.

Spot rolled his eyes, straightening his shirt, before turning to Race and offering him a little smile.

Race couldn’t help but smile as well, though that didn’t stop him from being a dick. “Y’know, cause you’re short, so it’s hard to see you—”

“Shut up. I got it the first time.”

Race grinned. “Didja need something, or just swingin’ by to see my pretty face?”

Had Spot run here? His skin was ever so slightly flushed. “It just so happens I came to ask if you wanna go out tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” Race answered dumbly, almost as surprised as he was delighted. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”

“Yeah, so, uh...” Spot scratched the back of his head. “I know you got dance or whatever, so you just tell me what time. I’ll pick you up.”

The smile spreading across Race’s face wasn’t even close to a reasonable level. “Yeah. Eight o’clock work?”

Spot blinked, looking almost surprised, then mirrored Race’s delighted expression. “Yeah, okay. Eight o’clock.”

* * *

The truth was, Spot never really thought he’d get this far. Despite Race basically telling him he’d caught feelings, his ‘yes’ still hit like a pleasant surprise. So there Spot was, seven fifty-five on Friday night, parked outside of Race’s house, wondering if he should go up to the door and risk running into Mr. or Mrs. Higgins or just text Race to let him know he was there. After a brief internal war, Spot groaned. If he was gonna do this—actually take Race out on a date—he was gonna do it right. He got out of the car and walked up to the door, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. It was damn cold, actually looking like it might snow. He bounced on the balls of his feet to keep warm as he waited after knocking on the door. A few moments later, the door opened to reveal Race, who looked only slightly less disheveled and lazy than usual, thanks to the addition of a blue plaid button up left open over his gray T-shirt.

He shot a dazzling smile towards Spot. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Spot smiled back. “You ready to go?”

Race nodded. “Yeah.” He stepped outside to follow Spot to the car.

“Dude, aren’t you gonna be cold?” Spot asked.

Race scoffed. “I don’t get cold.”

“A’right.” Spot shrugged and started back towards the car.

“So where we goin’?” Race asked, walking towards the passenger side.

“Y’know that arcade over by the movie theater?”

“Yeah.” Race grinned.

“That’s where we’re goin’.” Spot climbed into the driver’s seat. “It’s loud and overwhelming, just like you.”

Race laughed. “I’m overwhelming?”

“Very.”

“Wow, and I’m not even trying.”

Spot hadn’t really meant it as a compliment, but Race certainly seemed to take it that way. As they pulled away from Race’s house, Spot spared a moment to marvel at how in the hell he got here—back in New York, taking Racetrack Higgins on a fucking date. Perhaps this was all a very strange coma dream.

* * *

“You know you’re making this very difficult,” Spot grumbled.

“You’re the one that asked me out,” Race responded. “You knew what you signed up for.” He leaned more heavily against Spot’s side, nearly pushing him right out of the chair for whichever generic racing game this arcade had. Initially, he was leaning against the side of the chair, but before Spot even completed the first lap, Race had inched forward to press against his side. He smelled extra strongly like coconut shampoo, and it was very distracting. Spot narrowly avoided crashing his virtual car.

“Y’know, there’s another game, like, two feet away.”

“Yeah but I wanna play on this one.”

“You told  _ me _ to play it.”

“I know.” Race grinned, and shifted back off of Spot’s shoulder to turn a bit towards him. “Your hair is messy.” He proceeded to work his fingers through Spot’s hair, which hadn’t actually been messy before, but it certainly would be now.

Spot bit his tongue hard to keep from shuddering. Maybe he understood why Race liked having his hair touched so much. Race frowned as his fingers caught in a small knot, and he tugged a bit harder to separate it.

“Ow. Dude.” Spot tried to smack his hand away as his virtual car finally crossed the finish line.

Naturally, his attempts to dissuade Race only further encouraged him as he snickered, continuing to play with Spot’s hair.

“Do you want to play?” Spot asked, gesturing to the game as it returned to the title screen.

Race grimaced slightly and shook his head. “Nah, I’m not really into car games. How ‘bout that old eight-bit spaceship thing in the corner?” He gestured towards the back wall of the arcade.

Spot shrugged, standing. “Yeah, sure.” He started that way.

Race followed him, looking absently around at the other games as they crossed the room. Suddenly, Spot felt Race’s hand close around his wrist, and he was yanked off course as Race changed directions.

“Oh shit, they got one ‘a those dumb green screen photo booth things!”

“Wh— No,” Spot protested, planting his feet. “Absolutely not.”

Race continued to pull. “No come on, it’ll be fun!”

“Pictures are never fun.”

“That means you’re not doin’ ‘em right,” Race replied.

Spot groaned loudly, but eventually gave in and let Race drag him to the photo booth. Grinning like a goddamn idiot, Race pulled the thin, plastic curtain shut behind them, and turned to the screen.

“Kay, pick a backdrop.”

Spot slapped aimlessly at the little touchscreen, selecting one at random. Race huffed, rolling his eyes fondly, and hit the ‘go’ button before nestling against Spot’s side. Spot put his arm around him before he even had the chance to think about it.

Big, bubbly numbers appeared on the screen, counting down from five, and a fake shutter noise came through the speakers as the camera went off. Each round took five pictures, in which Race posed all sorts of ridiculous ways. Spot bit his tongue to keep from laughing. When the machine was done, it took a second for the two photo strips to print, and Race retrieved them happily from the little slot, handing one to Spot, and looking at the other one in his hand.

He frowned. “You look like you ate a whole, raw potato.”

Spot couldn’t hold in his laughter anymore. “A whole, raw potato?”

“Yeah! Like, all dusty and unpleasant.”

Spot shook his head, amused. Crazy how all the things about Race that used to drive him up the wall were the things he found the most charming, now.

Race grumbled, shoving the photo strip in his pocket and turning to the screen again. “You gotta look happy this time, okay?”

“Oh,” Spot blinked, “we’re doing it again?”

“Yeah, I want at least  _ one _ good picture.” Race rolled his eyes and hit the start button. “Now are you gonna look happy, or do I have to make you?”

Spot plastered the cheesiest, most obviously fake smile on his face, and Race glared at him, as the first shutter noise went off. His eyes narrowed, and after a split second of hesitation, he brought his hands to either side of Spot’s jaw, and pulled him into a kiss. Spot yelped in surprise at the same time as the second shutter sound, not expecting Race to be so forward, and wondering why he didn’t expect Race to be so forward. It wasn’t an especially hard kiss, or an especially soft one, it was just very sudden, and lingering. Spot put his hands on Race’s waist and kissed back.

As Race shifted closer, pressing his body against Spot, and tilting slightly to deepen the kiss, it seemed pretty apparent that he’d either forgotten the camera was still going off, or he just didn’t care. Spot did know and care, in some far recess of his mind, but an object in motion tends to stay in motion, and a Spot kissing a gorgeous boy tends to stay kissing a gorgeous boy. Race slid his hands down Spot’s chest, getting a grip on his shirt to pull him even closer, and very suddenly broke away from his mouth to duck down and press a hard kiss to the base of his neck. Spot’s grip tightened involuntarily, and he tried to remind Race that they were in a photo booth in a very public place, but all that came out of his mouth was, “R—Race...”

Race let out a quiet, breathy noise, somewhere between a whine and a sigh. At this point he had backed Spot up against the wall of the photo booth, and as he began to trail slow, hard kisses up his neck, he slid his leg between Spot’s, pressing as close against him as he could. Spot wanted very much to slam him on the floor and fuck him until he couldn’t move, but in lieu of that option, he grabbed his hair and pulled his head back so he could reach his lips and kissed him roughly. Race’s gasp was cut off by Spot’s mouth on his, and he wound his fingers tighter in Spot’s shirt, kissing him back hungrily as he continued to make those breathy, staccato noises that were getting dangerously close to moaning. Spot couldn’t force a single coherent thought through the haze of  _ holy shit, Race is hot _ , though ‘cut it out, you’re in public’ was floating around in there somewhere.

Race extracted his fingers from Spot’s shirt, sliding his hands down his body to his hips, and then back up again to slip under the fabric, ghosting his fingers featherlight across Spot’s stomach. Spot shuddered, holding in what was bound to be a downright embarrassing moan. It wasn’t fucking fair for Race to be so sexy. Not fair at all. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a concern for long, as Spot’s focus was suddenly snapped back to reality by the sound of the curtain sliding open, and a very bored voice saying, “Hey, can you guys, like, not?”

Race turned, and thus they both faced a very tired looking employee. He was about their age, but there was a tiredness behind his eyes that made one think of the eternal sufferings of Sisyphus and the like.

Race offered a sheepish, not quite apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

Spot cringed. “Sorry, man.”

The guy sighed. “Just cut it out, okay? This is a kids’ place.”

Spot and Race both nodded, and the poor employee stalked away. As soon as he was gone, Race erupted into a fit of giggles. It was pretty infectious, and soon Spot was laughing, too.

“Come on; you wanted to play the space game?”

* * *

Race hadn’t actually wanted to play the space game, he just wanted to get Spot alone in an emptier part of the arcade where they were less likely to be bothered. The photo booth had turned out to be a much better location, but now that that was out, a dark corner seemed to be the best option. Spot dropped some quarters into the slot on the machine, and rather than move to the other set of controls, Race stepped close behind him, slinging his arms around his waist and dropping his head to press a kiss into his shoulder. 

Spot half-smiled, half smirked. “Are you gonna play, or...?”

“Who says I ain’t playin’? I’m having tons of fun,” he teased, pressing another kiss into the base of Spot’s neck.

Spot tensed, “Suit yourself…” and started a single player game.

Race grinned against his neck, and wrapped his arms a little tighter, snuggling up close against Spot’s back. He’d realized a week or so ago that his feelings for Spot were a bit more than just lustful, but he’d tried to ignore it, for fear of complicating things and ruining whatever it was that they had. But now, he’d more or less confessed those feelings to Spot, and Spot hadn’t recoiled or lashed out as Race had feared, but rather asked him out on a real, proper date. Now that the concept of deepening their relationship wasn’t overshadowed by Race’s fear of blatant rejection, he couldn’t really get it out of his mind. At this point, Race was rather used to a good portion of his mind being taken up by various Spot-centric thoughts and daydreams, but up until recently they had all been either violent, sexual, or, more frequently, both. Now, there was a considerable number of more wholesome Spot-centric thoughts bopping around in his head, much like a collection of balloons that a room full of kids were fighting to keep off the floor. Everything was chill, and normal, and then Race would suddenly get smacked up the side of his head by the prospect of lazy Saturday morning snuggles with Spot, or bringing Spot to family pizza night, or any variety of dumb teen romance movie bullshit, like laying out stargazing in the bed of a pickup truck out in some field somewhere—despite the fact that neither of them drove a pickup truck—or slow dancing in the kitchen at two in the morning while they baked brownies. A more reasonable person would have worried about getting too invested too fast, but Race had very little concept of self restraint or caution. He sighed quietly, still smiling, and buried his face in the crook of Spot’s neck as he nestled even closer, despite the fact that he was already entirely pressed up against his back. Spot shifted his weight slightly, almost not at all, leaning back against Race. Race’s smile widened and he giggled quietly. Spot put on one hell of a tough front, but as time went on, Race was finding more and more cracks in the armor.

* * *

“I’m telling you, they’re rigged,” Race complained as he buckled his seatbelt. They had spent the last forty minutes at a claw machine, trying and failing to get a rainbow colored, stuffed guinea pig with a sparkly unicorn horn, and even though he’d never wanted one before and would probably forget about it within the hour, Race was quite indignant at the injustice of the situation.

“I told you,” Spot said, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the parking space. “I told you before we even started, and did you listen?”

“It was sitting right on top!” Race protested, gesturing towards the offending claw machine that wasn’t in front of him.

“But the game is rigged!” Spot laughed. “For once, we agree on somethin’.”

“People still win sometimes!”

Spot shook his head fondly, smiling. It was a good look on him. Then again,  _ everything _ was a good look on him, including nothing. Race knew he was staring, and he didn’t bother trying to hide or amend the situation.

“Did you...” Spot glanced out the window, and if Race didn’t know better, he’d think he was nervous. “Did you have fun?”

Race huffed, amused, and he smiled. “Yeah. Was I not supposed to?”

“No, I’m glad you did,” Spot replied.

Race smirked. He liked Spot, he really did, and for some reason the easiest way to deal with that was finding different ways to irritate him, or get him flustered. He absently reached over the center console, resting his hand on Spot’s thigh, just above his knee. “Did  _ you _ have fun?”

Spot shifted in his seat, keeping his eyes locked firmly on the road. “Yeah, I had fun.”

Race bit down a snicker. “You sure? You seem kinda...” he shifted his hand a tiny bit higher, “tense.”

Spot jerked the steering wheel to the side, turning the car swiftly into a darkened parking lot of an office building, and Race recoiled, startled, grabbing onto the edge of his seat. He wasn’t a fan of fast or sudden movement in cars in general, but especially not when it came out of nowhere. Spot practically spun the car around to the back of the building and slammed on the brakes, bringing it to an abrupt stop. The sudden change in momentum threw Race forward in his seat, and he was stopped sharply by his seatbelt.

Breathing a bit fast, he looked at Spot incredulously. “What the hell, man!?”

Spot unbuckled his own seatbelt and Race’s in one quick motion. “My aunt’s home.” He grabbed the front of Race’s shirt and yanked him forward into a kiss.

Race began to sputter indignantly, but he was cut off as their mouths crashed together. Spot placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved him hard, over the center console and into the backseat.

Race yelped. While effective, being tossed around like a rag doll wasn’t the most comfortable method of movement. “Spot, what the fuck?” he complained.

“ _ You _ ,” Spot growled, climbing over the console and on top of Race, “are a nasty little tease.”

“Wh—” Race sputtered into laughter. “What?”

Spot didn't answer, just grabbed his shoulders to pin him down to the seat and kissed him again. This time Race kissed back, winding his fingers into the sides of Spot’s shirt. Spot pulled away far too soon, as far as Race was concerned, and looked like he was going to say something for a second, but then he just shook his head and laughed.

“What?” Race frowned in mild confusion.

“You’re not fucking real.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“There’s no way.” Spot pressed his lips against the underside of Race’s jaw. “It’s not possible.”

Race shifted under him, giggling lightly. “Is this more about me being pretty, or something else?”

“Gorgeous,” Spot corrected him before pressing another quick kiss to his mouth.

“‘Gorgeous’?” He repeated when they broke apart. “That’s a new one.”

“Bullshit.”

Race laughed. “You’ve said I’m pretty, you’ve said I’m beautiful, you never said gorgeous.”

“Maybe  _ I  _ haven’t,” another quick kiss, “but  _ someone _ has,” and another.

“Mm, I don’t think so.” Race let go of Spot’s shirt and slid his hands up his chest and over his shoulders to drape his arms loosely around his neck, pulling him down for a more lingering kiss.

“I don’t believe that,” Spot murmured against his lips.

“Will you shut up and kiss me?”


	42. Fonch Has a Priblem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s drama afoot in the dance studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who ordered the subplot? Nobody? Well, take it anyway, on the house.

“So y’know how me ‘an Spot have been fucking?”

Tommy Boy—having been sharply cut off in the middle of a discussion on dance shoe brands—turned from Jojo to blink slowly at Race. “...I don’t see what that has to do with suede maintenance, but yeah?”

“I think it’s more than that...”

Tommy Boy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, we know, you’re in love with him or whatever.”

“No, I’m being serious!” Race protested, pouting.

“You were serious then,” Jojo reminded him, “but you fall in love faster than a stick of butter melts in hell.”

“No, this is different—”

Tommy Boy cut him off. “They’re  _ all _ different.”

Race pouted more. “Just cause I got a lotta feelings doesn’t mean they ain’t real.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What’re you saying then?”

“That we’ve heard this all before, and we don’t want you to get hurt,” Jojo answered for Tommy Boy.

Race huffed. They had a point; he  _ was _ rather prone to falling suddenly and madly in love with any random guy, only to fall out of it a week or two later, but Spot  _ was _ different. He  _ knew _ Spot was different.

“Where’s Finch, anyway?” Race asked, partially out of curiosity but mostly just to change the subject.

Tommy Boy nodded across the room. “Talking to Kaylie.”

“Didn’t they go to homecoming together?” Jojo mused, more remembering than actually asking, and Tommy Boy nodded.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“So are they a thing now, or...?” Race asked. Even though he hadn’t actually been in the hospital for that long, he still felt like he was playing catch-up.

“Kind of? I think?” Tommy Boy said. “I think they’re mostly just screwing.”

“That’s a perfectly legitimate basis for a relationship,” Race huffed.

Jojo frowned. “Yeah, except she’s Catholic. She goes to my church. Her family’s, like,  _ really _ Catholic.”

Race twisted his face thoughtfully. “That’s not a great basis for screwing.”

“What is it with you religious people and just screwing like rabbits?” Tommy Boy wondered aloud, frowning at Race.

“Well, ya see,” Race began, dropping his arm around Tommy Boy’s shoulders and speaking grandly, “when you got the fear of God in you, you gotta find ways to let some a’ that tension out.”

Jojo laughed. “Yeah, that’s why I  _ dance _ .”

“Imagine how much chiller you’d be if you fucked, too,” Race snickered.

“Imagine how much deader I’d be if my parents found out about it.”

“That’s why you do it all sneaky-like, dumbass.”

Tommy Boy scoffed, “Like you know anything about ‘sneaky-like’.”

Race pouted. “Shut up, I can be subtle.”

“You’ve never been subtle in your life. Name one time since your conception—”

“I sneak out all the time!” Race protested.

“Hey, guys, are they okay?” Jojo interrupted, looking across the studio at Finch and Kaylie, who were locked in what appeared to be a very serious conversation, not quite an argument.

Tommy Boy frowned, concerned. “Should we go check, or...?”

They never got the chance, as Finch and Kaylie grabbed their bags and left a moment later, before class had even begun.

“We should text him after class,” Jojo suggested, and the other two nodded in agreement.

* * *

Finch didn’t reply to the ‘Dance Boiz’ group chat, and eventually Race gave up on waiting and went to bed. He lay in the dark for a while, staring at the ceiling, thinking. It wasn’t like Finch to miss class, and it was even less like him to be there and then dip before it started. He’d seemed pretty agitated, and Race didn’t like it when something was wrong and he was left out of the loop. It was probably just something pointless like one of them wanting to get more serious and the other not, but that wasn’t really intense enough to make Finch skip class. He hoped everything was okay. He considered texting again in a private message, then noticed it was almost one in the morning and groaned. Getting up for church was gonna be a real bitch if he didn’t fall asleep soon. Of course, there’s nothing that wakes you up quite like the pressure of needing to fall asleep. He groaned again, wiggling fitfully in his bed and getting himself all tangled up in the sheets. Maybe if he wiggled himself to immobile exhaustion, he’d just pass right out. He only stopped when his phone started dinging, and he groaned a third time. Who the fuck was texting him at one in the morning on a Sunday? Everyone knew he went to church.

It was a small struggle to extract his arm from the cocoon he had begun to construct, and he pawed blindly around the bed till he found his phone. He flipped it right side up, squinting against the still too bright light of the screen.

Finally, a reply in the group chat from ‘Fonch’. Several, actually.

“ _ I need to talk to you guys _ ”

“ _ Rigt now _ ”

“ _ Meet me at the gas station on the corner by TB’s house? _ ”

“ _ Please _ ”

* * *

The gas station was only a few streets down from the house, and Race shot a text to his parents as he half jogged down the sidewalk, explaining where he went in case they woke up before he got back. Finch and Jojo were already there in the parking lot, and Finch was pacing back and forth, anxiously running his fingers through his hair over and over again.

“Hey man, what’s up?” Race asked, dropping to a walk as he got closer.

“I fucked up, Race. I fucked up bad.”

“Oookay, what happened?”

Tommy Boy jogged up. “This had better be an emergency. If my parents find out I’m gone—”

“I got her pregnant,” Finch blurted out, coming to a sudden stop, grinding the soles of his shoes into the pavement. “She took three tests. They’re all positive. She’s fucking pregnant.”

Race blinked, and his jaw dropped a bit in shock. “You what?”

Finch glared daggers at him.

Jojo exhaled roughly. “Shit, man, what are you going to do?”

“Is she going to keep it?” Tommy Boy asked at the same time.

Race’s eyes snapped sharply to Tommy Boy, and then to Finch.

“Yeah,” Finch sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair again. “Yeah, she’s keeping it.”

“What are you gonna do?” Jojo repeated.

After an uneasy pause, Finch shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Race tensed. “You’re not gonna run, are you?”

Finch looked up at him. “What?”

“Are you gonna take responsibility for this kid, or are you gonna run?” Race repeated.

“I—” Finch looked to Jojo, then Tommy Boy, then back to Race.

Race grit his teeth and tried very hard to keep himself from getting angry. Finch was scared—he was just a kid, of course he was scared—but that didn’t make it okay.

Jojo put his hand on Race’s shoulder and pulled him back a step. “Give him a break, Race,” he said lowly. “He’s freaking out.”

Race took a slow breath and nodded. “Sorry, I just...” He gestured vaguely, leaving his sentence to trail into nothing. “Whaddayou need, Finch? How can we help?”

“I just...” Finch sighed again. “I had to tell somebody.”

Tommy Boy nodded. “Sure.”

“We’ve gotcha, man,” Jojo assured him.

Finch nodded, sitting down on the ground and resting his head on his hands. Tommy Boy sat down next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder in an attempt at quiet comfort.

“It’s gonna be okay,” the younger boy assured him. “I mean, it’s crazy, and not really ideal, but it’ll all work out one way or another.”

* * *

It was almost two in the morning by the time Race was walking back up the driveway, and he cringed a bit when he saw a light on in the living room. He  _ had _ told his parents where he was going, and they hadn’t called him in a panic, so maybe everything would be okay. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. Stepping inside, he offered an apologetic smile towards his parents, who were both sitting on the couch in the dimly lit living room.

Mrs. Higgins turned towards him. “Is Patrick alright, sweetie?”

Race nodded, kicking his shoes off towards the hall closet. “Yeah, ‘s got some messy stuff goin’ on, but he’s okay.”

“He knows he can come to us if he needs anything?” Mr. Higgins asked.

Race nodded again. “I’ll remind him.”

His mother reached out to him, beckoning for him to come over to the couch, so Race crossed the room to join them, dropping onto the cushion beside her.

She cradled his head against her shoulder. “My sweet boy,” she sighed sleepily.

“Sorry I woke you guys up. I was trying to be quiet.”

“You didn’t wake us up, bud,” Mr. Higgins told him. “Your mom got up to get some water and saw your text.”

“Still though.”

Mrs. Higgins kissed his temple. “You’re always there for your friends. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he answered quietly.

After another minute, Mr. Higgins suggested they all go back to bed, so Race headed upstairs. He flopped into his bed with a rough exhale, and dropped an arm over his eyes.

Pregnant. And Finch was only eighteen, just a year older than Race’s father had been...

Race was fairly sure he would do the right thing. He was a good guy—solid, dependable, smart. Besides, if he tried to run off, Race could always just kneecap him and bring him back—better a crippled father than no father at all. Race would know.

* * *

“Don’t get me wrong,” Spot said, scribbling meaningless circles on the corner of his trigonometry homework, “he’s still loud and obnoxious and annoying, I just...find it entertaining, now, I guess.”

“How’s it going with him, anyway?” Hot Shot asked, eyes focused on his own homework.

Spot scoffed. “I think it’s going good. I never know what’s going on in his head. Last night, I took him to the arcade, and he—”

“Whoa, you guys actually went out? Or was this just a field trip to find somewhere else to fuck?”

“Well, it wasn’t supposed to be. That’s what I’m saying, though.” Spot set his pencil down and turned towards Hot Shot, successfully distracted from homework. “The sex is great—like,” he gestured emphatically, “ _ really _ great, best I’ve had—but he’s also genuinely fun to be around.”

“Huh. So are you guys, like, dating now, or...?”

“I mean, it was a date.” Spot slumped back in his chair. “He came onto me in a photo booth, and we had sex in my car in a parking lot on the way home, so I’m still not sure if he’s more into me or my dick. But, like, he told me he saw me as more than a fuck buddy, right?”

Hot Shot looked over at Spot curiously. “When was this? The ‘more than a fuck buddy’ bit, I mean.”

“Uh...the other day? Earlier this week.”

“Did he say what he sees you as?”

Spot sighed. “No.”

“Y’gonna ask ‘im?”

“I’ve tried. He always dodges.” He cringed. “S’not a good sign, is it?”

Hot Shot squiggled his mouth up. “Mm, yeah, probably not.”

Spot sighed again. He shouldn’t have let himself go and get all attached without knowing for sure. “I should talk to him.”

“Yeah, you should.”

“It’s just...I’d rather go on like we are than say something wrong and have him run.”

“I guess,” Hot Shot shrugged, “but what if he feels the same way, and you both go on not doing anything and shit falls apart or whatever?”

Spot rolled his eyes. “I’m  _ going _ to talk to him.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Spot said, and he promised himself he would.


	43. The Plot Chickens

Race was distracted, Monday morning—not by anything in particular, he was just having a hard time keeping his attention focused on anything for longer than a few minutes. This wasn’t anything new, but he’d been doing so well on his new meds since The Refuge, it was a little discouraging. Of course, he couldn’t expect to never have bad days. Plus, the ordeal with Finch had been weighing on his mind. The poor kid must have been losing his mind. Ever since he found out more about his parents circumstances, Race had spent a lot of time thinking about what he would do in the same situation. How would he handle an unexpected or underage pregnancy? Would he be able to be a good parent? Then, of course, he realized he was gay as a double rainbow, which was somewhat of a relief on that front. Of course, babies were still a possibility, but wildly less likely to be unplanned. You can’t exactly get a surrogate or adopt by accident. He supposed he could still have a child by accident if, say, someone willed him their child and then died, but who in their right mind would will him of a all people a child? He could barely keep himself alive, much less a very small, very useless person. Maybe he should work on that. Did he want kids, someday?

You know, of all the things to will to a person, a child was probably the worst choice. There were so many things that would be more useful, or more fun—like a house or a bank account or a boat. Granted Race didn’t know how to drive a boat, but even just  _ having _ a boat is its own thing. He could always just hire someone to drive, or he could take lessons. It couldn’t be that hard.

“Earth to Racetrack.”

Race whipped around so fast he nearly tripped over his own ankles. “Yeah—what—hi—.”

Spot snickered. They were on their way out of AP Bio. Race didn’t even remember being in AP Bio.

H blinked, hitting the mental reset button. “Yeah, sorry, what’s up?”

“Well, I gotta run—promised Hot Shot I’d work on homework with him over lunch—but I want to talk to you,” Spot said. “Meet me outside after school?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

Before Race had a chance to ask what he wanted to talk about, Spot had already disappeared into the crowd in the hallway. With a shrug, Race started towards the cafeteria, only to be stopped after just a couple feet by Jack.

“I’ve got it,” Jack said.

Race turned to him in mild surprise. “Got what?”

“David’s got an older sister,” Jack explained. “She’s in college, so when she comes home for breaks, I’m gonna flirt with her and make him jealous.”

Race ‘pfffffttt’ed his way into laughter.

Jack pouted. “Look, I know it’s a bad idea, but I’m desperate here.”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Desperate!”

“Have you even  _ talked _ to him?” Race snickered. “Other than asking if you can suck his dick, I mean.”

“I’ve tried!” Jack whined. “It’s always really awkward. He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m the only person that’s okay with ‘fuck me’ as an opener.”

“You want to know the worst part?” Jack’s pout had reached legendary proportions.

Race grinned. “Yes.”

“He likes boys...he just doesn’t like me...”

“Holy shit.” Race tried to stifle a laugh. “Has that ever happened to you before?”

Jack glared at him. “No.”

Race couldn’t quite hold onto a giggle. “Damn.”

“You’re a dick,” Jack sneered, turning to join the flow of students on their way to the cafeteria.

Race fell in beside him, still grinning. “How do you know he likes boys, if he won’t talk to you?”

“His brother talks to Crutchie.”

“Ahh.” Race nodded. “Tough break, man.”

“I’ve talked to him a little, just in passing.” Jack looked at the floor as he walked. “He’s really nice...”

“Have you considered, like, trying to make friends with the guy, before you go after his dick?”

“Yes, Race,” Jack huffed, rolling his eyes. “‘S kinda hard to do when he won’t make eye contact with me.”

“That sucks, man,” Race offered more sympathetically.

Jack shrugged. “Nah, you an’ Al are right.” He sighed quietly. “I shouldn’t be so hung up on this guy. I don’t even know him.”

It was weird, seeing the great Jack Kelly so defeated. Defiance was his primary personality trait. Race frowned briefly, then lightly hip checked him “I’m sorry, since when does Jack ‘Casanova’ Kelly accept defeat, short of a restraining order?”

Jack chuckled. “Right. Real ‘Casanova’ I am.”

“Well, clearly you need to work on your intro technique, but you got the spirit for it,” Race teased.

“Hey, my intro technique has never been an issue, before!”

“Sure, but you’re in the big leagues now, Kelly!” He clapped Jack’s shoulder. “You gotta step up your game!”

“Shit...” Jack shook his head. “Never thought  _ I’d _ be coming to  _ you _ for relationship advice, but...”

Race snickered. “What can I say? I’m wise beyond my years.” They reached their usual table, and only now did Race realize it was weird that Albert hadn’t walked with him from AP Bio. He looked around the cafeteria. “Where’s Al?”

“Dentist appointment,” Jack said. “Guess you haven’t checked your text messages.”

Race frowned a bit. “Yeah, guess I been sorta out of it, today.” He pulled his phone out, unlocking it to check said messages. Sure enough, My Best Pal-bert had warned The Two Musketqueers and the Token Straighty that he’d be gone for a little bit in the middle of the day for a dentist appointment, and Fonch had messaged the Dance Boiz.

“ _ She’s been crying all day. I am literally the worst piece of shit on the planet _ ”

There was a reply from Jojo. “ _ I’ll talk to her _ ”

“ _ No don’t she doesn’t know I told you _ ”

Race sighed quietly and punched in a message of his own. “ _ It’ll work out, we’ve got your back _ ”

As he was typing, Jack pulled his lunch out of his backpack. “You and Conlon official, yet?”

Race looked up at him. “What? No.” He hit send before sliding his phone back into his pocket. “I mean, we went out, but we ended up fucking in his car, so I dunno if he really even meant it as a date, y’know?”

Jack snorted. “Dude, car sex isn’t even good.”

“Clearly you’ve never had car sex with Spot Conlon,” Race scoffed, unzipping his backpack to retrieve his own lunch bag.

“But you’re not official.”

“No, unless I somehow missed it when it happened.”

“Why not?”

Race shrugged. “I dunno, we haven’t really talked about it. I dunno if he even wants a boyfriend.”

Jack smirked. “Seems like he wants  _ you _ .”

A little smile tugged at the corners of Race’s mouth. “We can hope.”

“Oh my god, you’re so gone over him.” Jack leaned in, grinning like a shark. “Oh my god, look at you.”

“Shut up!” Race batted at Jack’s face, leaning away. “I’m not the one using my sibling to gather intel!”

“You would be, if you  _ had _ a sibling!” Jack protested, sitting back in his chair.

“Yeah, well, I don’t, and nor does he, so even if I did, it wouldn’t work!”

Jack huffed indignantly. “Well, the point is, if you and Spot can recover from breaking each other’s faces, I can recover from a bad pickup.”

Race snorted. “I’d hope so, yeah.”

“And I’m gonna do it by making him jealous.”

“By flirting with his sister?” Race scoffed.

“Yeah.” Jack frowned. “Haven’t we already been over this?”

“It’s still a dumb plan.” Race retorted, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“I’m still desperate,” Jack shot back.

“You’re still an idiot.”

“And you’re still the world’s biggest twink. What’s your point?”

* * *

Spot and Hot Shot skipped their second to last period, opting to sit in the nook beneath the stairs at the very bottom of a stairwell and chug some energy drinks to get them through the rest of the day.

“I’m barely passing trig,” Hot Shot lamented. “How the hell are you passing trig?”

“Got nothin’ to do but study,” Spot told him.

“D’you think your folks are ever gonna let you take all your stuff?” Hot Shot asked, but then continued without waiting for an answer. “What are you gonna do after graduation, anyway? Go back to Philly?”

“Hell no,” Spot scoffed. “I’m enlisting.”

He had never actually said it with such confidence before, and it felt good and terrifying at the same time.

Hot Shot twisted his mouth in mild surprise and acknowledgment. “Huh, didn’t know you wanted to go military.”

“I want to go  _ away _ ,” Spot clarified.

Hot Shot huffed. “There’s other ways to go away.”

“Oh, there’s  _ plenty _ of ways to go away,” Spot agreed, taking a sip of his energy drink and wincing away the sourness. “I want to go away and have it mean something.”

Hot Shot nodded. “I guess that’s fair.”

“You still wanting to go to that school over in Connecticut or wherever?”

Another nod. “Yeah, they got a pretty good comp sci program.”

“Nice,” Spot replied simply. What he was thinking was, ‘imagine wanting to stay that close to your family’, and then, ‘imagine having the kind of family you want to be close to’.

“So,” Hot Shot broke the silence, “you talk to him yet?”

“Nah, I’m talkin’ to him after school.”

“You know what you’re gonna say, or are you just gonna wing it, and see what comes out of your dumb mouth?”

“Wingin’ it’s worked for me, so far...” Spot grumbled, refusing to be embarrassed.

Hot Shot snickered. “Bet you’re gonna end up fucking ‘stead of talking, again.”

“We will not.” Spot rolled his eyes. “We’re gonna stand right outside, in front of the school as everyone’s leaving, and work this out once and for all.”

“Yeah, he might not jump on ya if you’ve got an audience.”

Spot gestured with his energy drink can like a toast. “That’s the dream.”

“An audience, or him not jumpin’ on ya?” Hot Shot snickered again.

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughed. “What are you after, anyway? With Race, I mean.”

“I, uh...” Ah, yes—there were those nerves that had been plaguing him all fucking day. “I think I wanna give it a shot. Me an’ him, you know? I wanna give it a shot...”

“Oh yeah?” Hot Shot huffed lightly. “Guess that makes you a braver man than most.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s fuckin’ crazy. I can’t even imagine how high maintenance he’d be in a real relationship.”

He clearly meant it harmlessly, but Spot bristled all the same. “High maintenance things tend to be better quality, if you take good care of them.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Hot Shot replied with a shrug.

Spot knocked back the rest of his drink, still a little irritated. “And just so we’re clear,” he began, speaking in a light tone of voice that would suggest joking, but he was only partially joking, “if he takes me up on my offer, I’ll break your face if you talk about him like that.”

“Wh—“ Hot Shot laughed. “Dude you said the same shit about him a few days ago.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s—” Spot stopped himself a split second before ‘ _ mine _ ’. He clamped his mouth shut.

Hot Shot smirked, amused. “He’s what?”

“Nothing.” Spot grumbled. “Not yet, anyway.”

* * *

Spot Conlon was not the nervous type. Perhaps that’s why the sinking feeling in his stomach kept him from focusing at all during his last class; he just didn’t know how to deal with it. He hated Race a little bit for making him like that. Really, who did he think he was, annihilating Spot’s entire self concept and worldview? Of course, then they met up just inside the front doors after school, and Race smiled, and all was fucking forgiven.

“Hey,” Race greeted Spot as he approached.

“Hey.” Spot waited for him to catch up, then continued out the doors.

Race fell into step beside him, settling his hands in the center pocket of his hoodie. “What’s up?”

“I thought we should talk,” Spot gestured back and forth between them, “about this.”

Race furrowed his brow in very mild confusion. “Us?”

“Yeah, us.” Spot dropped his hand. Maybe Hot Shot was right. Maybe he should have rehearsed.

“Okay, what about us?” Race prompted.

“Well...you said that you don’t think of me as a fuck buddy.”

They came to a stop near the edge of the sidewalk, and Race exhaled shortly, not quite a snort of amusement. “Uh, yeah, I guess I did.”

Spot turned towards Race fully. “So what do you think of me as?”

Race pulled a hand from his pocket to twist his fingers into his hair just behind his ear. “Whaddayou mean?”

Race was cute, when he was nervous. Of course, he was.

“I mean, is this—” Spot gestured between them again, but never finished his sentence, as he was distracted by someone calling his name.

He froze. It had been a while since he’d heard that voice, but not so long that he didn’t recognize it immediately.

Spot turned and faced the last person he expected to see outside of Duane High School on a Monday afternoon.

“Ethan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise?


	44. His

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot has to make a decision.

Wait, Ethan? Like Ethan, Spot’s ex Ethan? Race looked back and forth between Spot and this stranger who had appeared out of nowhere. He wasn’t exactly confused, but it was always a bit baffling to suddenly run into someone who you had heard mentioned but never seen or known for yourself. Naturally, Spot’s ex was attractive. Very attractive. Race noticed these things about boys. Ethan looked like the leading man in a Disney Channel original movie, with wavy, brown hair and bright, hazel eyes and freckles overtop that kind of sun-kissed skin that girls spend hundreds of dollars at Sephora to imitate. He was taller than Spot, duh, but looked to be a little bit shorter than Race from where he was standing, looking all put-together in nice skinny jeans and a coat with fake fur around the hood.

“Hey, Sean,” he greeted Spot with a not quite shy smile, and Race felt a small, sour twist in his stomach.

Spot walked quickly over to Ethan, and it felt sort of like he took what little warmth there was in the November air with him when he did. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, looking almost as baffled as Race.

“I wanted to see you,” Ethan answered.

Spot’s jaw tightened a little, like he was biting his tongue. He looked back at Race.

For a second, Race just stared, then spoke with a sort of jerky start. “I’m gonna go, then.”

Spot winced apologetically, and Ethan spoke up. “Sorry,” he began with a fake sort of sweetness. “Who are you?”

“That’s Anthony,” Spot told him before Race had the chance to answer.

Race offered Ethan a tight smile—more of a sneer, really—“Hi.”

Ethan mirrored his expression almost exactly.

Spot turned to Race again and sighed. “I’ll call you later.”

“Sure,” Race answered. “You kids have fun.”

He brushed past Ethan as he headed into the parking lot, mouth twisted in sour distaste. Race hated him. They had barely even spoken, and he hated him, with his dumb pretty face, and the way he looked at Spot, and the way he said his name. Race almost felt guilty for his venomous reaction. Spot wasn’t even really his to be jealous about, but maybe he wanted to be. He’d wanted to talk, and he’d asked what Race saw him as—granted they didn’t get the chance to find out, since _ Ethan _ was around, with his dumb pretty face, being all distracting.

Race glared as he climbed into his car, slamming the door after him. He glanced in his rear view mirror, and his expression darkened even more as he saw Spot and Ethan walking towards Spot’s car. Cool, now they were going somewhere together, even better. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Race tried to remind himself that he had no right to be jealous, but he knew that line of logic wouldn’t last long; it barely had a leg to stand on in the first place.

* * *

Seeing Ethan in Aunt Beth’s house was weird, like seeing an actor in a period drama just chillin’ on the set in their costume with an iPhone and a Starbucks cup. He was from a different part of Spot’s life—one that wasn’t supposed to collide with this one. Spot didn’t even know why he was there. ‘I wanted to see you’ wasn’t exactly a satisfactory answer. Knowing Ethan and his penchant for dramatics, however, whatever it was he wanted, it was safer to handle it in private.

“D’you like your new school?” Ethan asked, looking absently around the dim living room.

Spot scoffed, dropping himself onto the couch. “You don’t care about my new school.”

Ethan moved to sit next to him, close enough that he obviously wanted to be closer. “I care about _ you _.”

What could Spot say to that? He didn’t care about Ethan the way he used to—the way Ethan still cared about him—but that’s not to say he didn’t _ care _. Shit, they’d been together for more than a year. He didn’t harbor any ill will towards the poor guy.

“What are you doing here, Ethan?” he asked again.

“I’m not happy with how things ended with us.” Ethan shifted a bit closer. “I _ miss _ you.”

“So you just decided to come all the way to New York on a Monday to tell me all the things you’ve drunk texted me a hundred times?”

“Well, I figure this way you can’t ignore me,” he said with a smile, as if this was somehow cute instead of damned inconvenient.

“Sure can’t,” Spot half chuckled, half grumbled. Really, Ethan’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Spot might have been more receptive to what he had to say if he could get Race, looking all hurt and bewildered as he announced he was leaving, out of his head.

“I shouldn’t’ve freaked out like I did about you moving,” Ethan said, shifting closer again. “I was upset; I knew I wouldn’t be happy with long distance—not being able to see you...to touch you...” He brushed his fingers down Spot’s arm, letting his hand trail down to rest just above his knee.

Spot grabbed his wrist. “Ethan—”

He was cut off as Ethan closed the small distance between them, leaning in to press a gentle but insistent kiss to his lips. Spot froze. Sure, he and Ethan had kissed hundreds of times at least, and sure, it was just like Ethan to take his chances and press his luck, but he still wasn’t expecting it. It wasn’t bad—he hadn’t magically stopped finding Ethan attractive when they broke up—but it wasn’t _ right _, either. Spot put his hand on Ethan’s shoulder and gently pushed him off.

“Baby—” Spot grimaced—force of habit—and, despite the fact that they were completely alone in his aunt’s house, instinctively glanced around to make sure nobody had heard.

No, not ‘nobody’. Race.

Spot groaned. “Look, I didn’t bring you back here so we could—...”

Ethan whined. “Why not, what’s stopping you?”

“W—” Spot stammered. “We broke up. This isn’t a thing anymore.” He stood up and paced into the kitchen. The proximity was getting to be a lot.

Ethan followed him. “Is this about that guy you were talking to?”

Spot grimaced. “What if it is?”

“So, what, are you guys dating?”

He grimaced harder. “Funny you should ask...”

Ethan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sort of,” Spot clarified. “We’re...sort of...dating.”

“‘Sort of’?”

“Yeah, ‘sort of’.”

“Sean, you either are or you aren’t.”

He rolled his eyes. “I have been on one date with Anthony.”

“Okay, so that’s not dating.”

_ Thanks for reminding me _. “Nah. We’re fucking, though,” Spot told him, completely out of spite.

Ethan huffed. “So? He’s probably fucking loads of people.”

Spot gritted his teeth. It was true, Race had a reputation for being, as Myron once put it, ‘like, such a slut’, but he wasn’t messing around with anyone else...that Spot knew about. Would Race tell him, if he was?

Ethan stepped close again, placing a hand on Spot’s arm. “He doesn’t have anything to do with us, so don’t worry about it.”

But he did worry. For better or worse, Spot cared about Race a lot, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt him. He didn’t even know if this _ would _ hurt him. Thanks to Ethan’s extremely inopportune appearance, they hadn’t had a chance to talk.

It seemed Ethan was taking Spot’s lack of an argument as affirmation. He dropped his hand down to rest at Spot’s waist. “Don’t say anything to him, if you’re so worried about it. It’s not like it’s any of his business.”

Spot turned his head away. Ethan wasn’t wrong, but that was the problem. He and Race weren’t exclusive. Hell, they weren’t even official. He was free to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted, but—

“I don’t want to get back together, if that’s what you’re after.”

Ethan shrugged. “We can talk about that part later.” He twisted his fingers into the hem of Spot’s shirt, tugging a little bit to bring him closer.

_ Race wouldn’t like that _, Spot thought, and he laughed out loud, because it was such a ridiculous thing to think while his ex was propositioning him in his aunt’s kitchen.

Ethan smiled. “What?”

Spot shook his head, pulling away. “This is ridiculous. You just showed up out of nowhere, and you’re—and I—”

“Look if you want me to go, I’ll go,” Ethan interrupted in that pouty way he did when he expected someone to quickly correct themselves and plead to go along with whatever it was he had wanted in the first place.

Spot cast him a sideways glance, chewing on his bottom lip. On one hand, he was a simple man, and a cute guy was practically throwing himself at him. On the other hand...

Well, he had to make a decision.

* * *

“_ Fuck! _” Race recoiled as the bouncy ball he had been throwing at the wall came back faster than he’d expected, and hit him right in the face. “That huuurt,” he whined, voice muffled as he pressed his hands to his face.

He moved over to flop onto his bed, and stared boredly at the ceiling. It was a little after eleven-thirty, and Race had lost interest in his varied collection of video games shortly after Albert had signed off for the evening. He found various things to keep himself busy, but none occupied his attention for long. He considered going hunting for his phone, but decided against it. After spending a few hours compulsively checking to see if Spot had called or texted—he hadn’t—Race had turned his phone off and thrown it somewhere in a fit of indignant irritation. 

Spot had every right to go wherever he wanted with _ Ethan _ . He had every right to do whatever he wanted with _ Ethan _ ...or _ to _Ethan…

Race glared at the ceiling and rolled over to press his face into his pillow. It wasn’t like he and Spot were exclusive...they weren’t even dating to begin with. Thanks to _ Ethan _ , they’d been interrupted before they could talk about whatever it was they actually _ were _.

It had been Spot’s idea to talk. That was good, right? That meant Spot cared. Or maybe he’d wanted to talk to confirm things were just casual, or to call the whole thing off all together—though that didn’t make a whole lot of sense, with the date...oh, god, unless the date was what made Spot realize he didn’t want anything ‘real’ with Race. Race _ had _ been kind of a lot, at the arcade...but Spot was the one who instigated car sex... None of it made any sense.

Race groaned, rolling off the bed to land with a _ thud _ on the carpet.

...He really needed to vacuum.

While he was contemplating whether his room was far enough from his parents’ to undertake this endeavor at almost midnight, there was a sharp rap on his window.

“Not tonight, Satan,” Race muttered absently, as if the feeble glass and loose screen of his bedroom window could keep out whatever evil creature of the night had come calling.

“It’s his stepson actually,” the creature called, sounding a lot like Spot Conlon, and then there was the distinct sound of a window screen popping off. “Jesus Christ, that _ is _ loose...”

Race sat up sharply, managing to crack his head on his bed frame as he went. “Owww...” he whined, pressing his hand to the point of impact as he turned to face the window.

Spot was perched on the roof outside, carefully sliding the window open and climbing inside.

“What sort of eighties teen movie bullshit...?” Race mumbled, getting up off the floor. “How the hell did you get on my roof?”

“Fence, roof,” Spot explained, closing the window behind him.

“Okay, _ why _ the hell did you get on my roof?” Race asked, standing now, and looking at Spot in somewhat shocked confusion.

“I called. You didn’t answer,” Spot said, as if this explained everything. “Went straight to voicemail.”

Race blinked. “Oh.” He blinked again. “You called once, and I didn’t answer, so you climbed my house?”

“Never said ‘once’.”

“Oh,” he said again, stupidly, still very off guard. “Uh, my phone is…” He gestured vaguely around the room, not at all remembering where he’d thrown it.

“Ah.” Spot nodded.

“So uh...” Race reached up to brush his fingers through his hair, leaving his hand to rest at the nape of his neck. He averted his gaze, scrunching up his face unhappily and quickly forcing it back to neutral. “How’s Ethan?”

Spot let out a chuckle. “Pissed at me. What else is new?”

Race opened his mouth to ask what Ethan had wanted, but closed it again without saying anything. He didn’t really want to know.

“We—” Spot hesitated, shifting his weight awkwardly. “We never got to talk...”

Race twisted his fingers into his hair. “Right...d’you wanna talk now, or...?” This was a very strange situation, and Race felt very off balance.

Spot nodded again. “Yeah, I do.”

“Oookay...” Race dropped his arm, looking at Spot and waiting for him to continue.

It took him a moment to do so, and Race could practically see the gears turning too fast in his head. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and firm. “I care about you, Race. I really do.”

Race felt his stomach squirm, and he fought down what was sure to be a small but stupid smile. He wasn’t entirely sure where Spot was going with this, or how he was supposed to respond. “Okay?”

Spot raised his eyebrows for a moment in apparent surprise, then frowned. “Okay?” he parroted. “Just...okay?”

“N— I didn’t think that was a full statement.” He cringed. “I’m sorry, this is weird. I guess I’m a bit thrown by the whole window thing.” He exhaled shortly in awkward amusement.

Spot shook his head. “God, you’re a fucking _ idiot _.”

Race sputtered indignantly. “I’m _ sorry _, am I supposed to be used to guys climbing through my window in the middle of the night for casual conversation?”

Spot had crossed the room to him by the time he finished speaking, and he placed his hands on either side of his jaw and kissed him firmly. Race tensed for a moment, but quickly melted into the kiss. 

All too soon, Spot pulled away, but he didn’t go far. “Let me spell it out for you,” he said. “I care about you, I want to be with you, and you’re a fucking idiot.”

Race felt his cheeks heat up a bit, and a wide smile forced its way onto his face. “Do you mean you want to be with me, like, in a biblical sort of way, like you wanna fuck, or like a relationship—?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

He grinned wider. “So is that a ‘no’ for fucking then, or...?”

“You’re already the worst boyfriend, and you haven’t even said ‘yes’, yet.”

Race laughed, and now it was his turn to take Spot’s face in his hands and press a kiss to his lips.

Spot looped his arms around Race’s back and held him close. “S’at a ‘yes’?”

“Who’s the idiot now?” Race quipped, dropping his arms over Spot’s shoulders. “Yeah, it’s a ‘yes’, stupid.”

A smile lit up Spot’s face, and it turned Race’s insides to mush. “Good.”

Race groaned, “Oh God, shut up, you’re cute,” and he kissed him again.

Spot let go of Race to shrug his coat off, never breaking away from his lips, and Race got a grip on the front of Spot’s shirt, pulling him closer and tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Spot placed one hand on Race’s hip and the other on the side of his neck, swiping his thumb over his jaw, almost painfully gentle and sweet. Race exhaled, not quite a sigh, and relaxed against him, leaning into his touch.

“Come on,” Spot whispered against his mouth, guiding him back towards the bed.

Race went willingly, backing up till his legs hit the bed and he sat down.

Spot smoothed a hand over Race’s hair, smiling down at him. “You got a haircut.”

Race smiled back, setting one hand to rest on the side of Spot’s thigh as he stood in front of him. “Yeah, Mom bribed me with Starbucks.”

“Looks good.” Spot pulled Race’s shirt over his head and tossed it aside, leaning in to press a trail of kisses across his cheek.

“_ You _ look good.” Race retorted, still grinning like an idiot. He got ahold of Spot’s hips, pulling him forward and down into his lap.

Spot laughed and pressed his lips to the side of Race’s neck, then his shoulder, taking his time exploring Race’s skin with his mouth. Race shivered lightly and leaned back, bracing his hands behind him on the bed and giving Spot room to move as he wished. Spot followed, pushing him the rest of the way back onto his bed, and Race reached up to loop his arms around Spot’s neck and pull him down into a slow, gentle kiss. Spot hummed contentedly against his lips, bracing his arms above Race’s head and absently playing with his hair. Race held on tighter, arching his back to press himself more against Spot—he was warm and solid, and he smelled nice.

Usually, when he touched Spot, Race was after pleasure and enjoyment. This time, now that a deeper level of intent and desire between them had been admitted, Race sought closeness, and Spot gave it. There was something in the way his lips worked slowly against Race’s, like they had all the time in the world, like just being together was enough.

“Still don’t believe you’re real.”

Race pulled back just enough to speak, but not enough that they broke contact. “You should probably talk to someone then, if you’re trying to fuck a hallucination.”

“‘M not trying to _ fuck _ you,” Spot said. “I’ma take better care a’ you than that.”

“So you admit I’m a hallucination?” Race teased, grinning.

“God, I hope not.” Spot kissed him again, a little harder this time.

True to his word, Spot didn’t _ fuck _ him. It wasn’t like that. It was hard and slow and deliberate, and it felt fucking amazing. They’d had sex before—obviously—and while it was usually rather rough and demanding, from both of them, it wasn’t always like that. This was different though, even from the fewer, gentler times. This was more intentional, more _ meaningful _. Afterwards, as they lay tangled together in the dark, on top of Race’s bed, the words ‘making love’ occurred to him, but he brushed the thought away with a silent scoff, feeling rather silly.

Spot pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his forehead, sighing sleepily. Race nestled against his side, with one arm looped across his chest, and his hand tucked over his shoulder. He let out a slow, content exhale. Everything was a hazy, almost dreamlike sort of soft, and Race liked it.

“So d’ you like me this whole time, or is it a more recent realization?” he asked quietly.

Spot chuckled. “D’fine ‘this whole time’.”

“I know you said you had a crush on me when we were kids,” Race said, hooking one of his legs over Spot’s hip, “but was it continuous, or did it stop and then start up again?”

“Oh, I hated your guts,” Spot replied casually.

Race giggled. “Good. I was worried I’d lost my touch.”

“Never.” Spot kissed his forehead again.

“I take pride in being an irritating piece of shit.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You sayin’ I’m not good at what I do?” Race pouted.

Spot looked down at him, face all scrunched up in confusion.

“I can try harder, if you want,” Race continued, as if his responses were following any reasonable line of progression. “Make it _ more _ noticeable.”

Spot rolled over onto his side and wrapped his arms around Race, crushing him against his chest. “Sshhh.”

Race burst into giggles, mostly stifled against Spot. He got his hands between them and tried—not very hard—to push against Spot’s chest to free himself.

“Sshhh,” Spot repeated, starting to pet his hair.

Race thought about biting, but that might get a louder-than-desirable reaction, considering his parents sleeping downstairs. Spot loosened his hold slightly, still calmly petting Race’s hair. 

Race sighed quietly, settling back into his arms. “You’re a lot nicer than you pretend to be.”

“Shaddup,” Spot groaned.

“Whaaat, you are!”

“‘S ‘cause your mine,” Spot said, voice thick and slurred with sleep, tightening his arms around Race again.

Race giggled. “Say it again.”

“Say what?”

He rolled his eyes and kicked at Spot’s ankles. “Say it again!”

“‘S ‘cause you’re mine?”

“Mm,” Race hummed happily, and cuddled closer, burying his face in the crook of Spot’s neck.

Spot chuckled lightly. “Yeah, you’re mine, alright.”

“Again.” Race demanded, voice somewhat muffled against Spot’s neck.

“Mine.” It sounded like Spot was smiling.

Race smiled too, snuggling impossibly closer against him. ‘His’. He liked that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re sick of reading about Spot and Race making out, that’s just too damn bad, I guess.


	45. Fucking Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sprace's first day as a real thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boys, this one is a monster.

Race’s alarm clock went off at seven fifteen a.m., and he groaned loudly, rolling to swat blindly at his bedside table. A few years ago, after he had gone through every single alarm tone on his phone and somehow developed an immunity to all of them, his parents had gotten him an old fashioned alarm clock. It was harder to ignore, and he frequently knocked it onto the floor as he tried to silence it, which meant he had to physically get out of bed to make it stop—not particularly pleasant way to wake up, but quite effective.

Sitting up to blearily rub the sleep out of his eyes, Race realized that Spot was already gone. He must’ve snuck out earlier. Although mildly displeased by his absence Race sighed happily anyway.

‘His’.

They were something  _ real _ now.

* * *

Spot hesitated outside the door to AP Bio. He hadn’t seen Race since he left early that morning. Race had looked like a goddamn angel, completely relaxed and peaceful, and it had almost pained him to leave, but the last thing he wanted was to get caught by Race’s parents, so he resigned himself to seeing him in class. Spot was usually the first one to the classroom, on account of his previous one being closer than Race’s. He leaned up against the wall and watched in the direction Race usually came from.

There was a time when Spot Conlon would have done anything to avoid Racetrack Higgins, and now he just wanted to see him. After a minute or two, he caught sight of him through the still crowded hallway, walking towards the classroom with Albert, locked in a very animated conversation. Spot wondered if Race had already told Albert about their relationship. He smirked. That was bound to piss the poor guy off.

As they got closer, Race looked up and caught sight of Spot. A smile broke across his face, and it was like the whole day had suddenly got a bit brighter. Well, the whole day, excluding Albert.  _ He _ rolled his eyes heavily—looks like Race told him.

Spot smiled back. If Albert didn’t like it, that was a  _ him _ problem. Still out of earshot, Albert said something, and Race smacked him in the chest reproachfully with the back of his hand, still heading towards Spot. Spot pushed off the wall to greet him when he arrived, and Race reached out for his hand, smiling.

“Hey, babe.”

Albert rolled his eyes heavily, and Race—without having even looked at him—smacked him again.

“Hey, gorgeous.” Spot brought Race’s hand up to his lips and kissed it, making eye contact with Albert as he did.

Albert groaned, rolling his eyes even harder, and walked past them into the classroom, and Race stuck his tongue out at him as he passed.

Spot shifted his focus onto Race. “How are you?”

Race shrugged, smiling. “Same soup, just reheated.”

“‘S it good soup, at least?”

He let out a small, amused snort. “Yeah, ‘s not bad.”

“Good.” Spot kissed his hand again and started into the classroom.

Not letting go, Race followed.

The classroom wasn’t quite full yet. Albert was already in his usual seat near the back, staring stonily at Spot as they walked in. Spot ignored him, squeezing Race’s hand before letting go to take his seat near the front. After shooting him another smile, Race headed towards his desk, taking a swipe at the back of Albert’s head as he dropped into his seat. Spot chuckled and faced forward, ready for class to begin. As he turned around, he caught the tail end of a look of mild confusion and shock on Mrs. McNamera’s face, just a second before she wiped it away with her usual, semi-bland smile. Spot bit his lip to keep from laughing. Oh, how the tide had changed.

* * *

Race was vaguely paying attention to Mrs. McNamera’s lecture on genetics, though he  _ was _ very distracted by his boyfriend, listening and taking notes and being all  _ smart _ , when he felt something light drop into his lap. Mildly surprised, he looked down and picked up the folded piece of paper, glancing at Albert as he unfolded it.

“ _ I don’t trust him. What’s his game? _ ”

Race shot another look at him and flipped the paper over to write on the back. “ _ The fuck are you talking about? _ ”

Albert nodded pointedly towards Spot, and Race rolled his eyes and balled the paper up before lightly tossing it into Albert’s lap.

Albert straightened it out, crossed out his old message, and wrote another one beside it. He passed it to Race under their desks. “ _ He hates you. Always has _ .”

Race frowned, writing back. “ _ Not  _ _ always _ _ . Plus he said he cares about me, like a lot _ “

“ _ People lie, like a lot _ .”

Race rolled his eyes. “ _ Why would he lie about this? We’re already fucking, what would be the benefit to lying about wanting to be with me? _ “

Albert huffed, but relented for the time being. Race rolled his eyes, turning his attention more or less back to Mrs. McNamera’s lecture. Albert had always had a short temper, and Race  _ did _ appreciate his concern, he just frequently went overboard. Race didn’t think Spot was lying—why would he?

* * *

When the bell finally rang for lunch, Spot let out a heavy breath. He found genetics interesting, and he’d taken two full pages, front and back, of notes. Nonetheless, it always put him in a weird mood. He looked down at his notes, at the facts and the theories, the squares and the formulas, knowing half of his answers were just...missing.

At least one other person in the room knew how that felt.

He glanced towards the back of the classroom, where Race was still at his desk, finishing up his own notes.

Honestly, with all the shit he’d been through, it was no wonder Race was a little crazy. He was damn resilient, though. A warm feeling bloomed in Spot’s chest, and it took him a moment to recognize it as pride. Race was his boyfriend now, and Spot was proud of him.

Once finished with his notes, Race closed his notebook and stood up, moving his things off his desk and into his book bag with a careless sweep of his arm. He was saying something to Albert, grinning in a way that made Spot think of an evil—if not slightly incompetent—cartoon villain. Whatever it was made Albert shush him, nodding towards Mrs. McNamera at the front of the room. Race gestured at him dismissively, zipping up his backpack and slinging it over his shoulders. Spot could hear his slightly louder, “You worry too much,” as Race turned to walk towards the front of the room. Spot stood up then, hoping to intercept him, but luckily, Race was already heading his way.

Race smiled. “Hey,”

“Hey.” Spot reached out to take his hand.

Race laced their fingers together, glancing briefly over Spot’s shoulder. “I think Mrs. McNamera might explode.”

Spot shrugged. “I’m sure she’s just concerned about your safety, like everyone else.”

Race laughed. “They should be more concerned when you’re not around to save me.”

Albert made a gagging noise as he brushed past them, practically fleeing the classroom.

“Bitch when did  _ you _ drag me off a bridge!?” Race shouted after him.

Spot chuckled. “Come on, I’m hungry.” He let go of Race’s hand in favor of putting an arm around his waist.

“Where are we sitting?” Race asked as they headed into the hallway.

“What, you don’t think Red wants to sit with us?” Spot scoffed, bumping Race lightly with his shoulder.

“He’d probably try to stab you with a straw.” Race answered plainly. “D’you want to sit with your friends?” he asked. “Since you suffered through lunch with mine a few days ago.”

“Sure,” Spot answered plainly. “Don’t think they’d mind.”

Race nodded, reaching for his pocket. “I’m gonna text Albert and Jack, so they don’t freak out and think I’m abandoning them.”

Spot smirked.  _ That oughta go over well _ .

* * *

The Two Musketqueers and the Token Straighty

Race: Okay no bitch fits

Race: I’m gonna sit with Spot and his friends for lunch today

My Best Pal-bert: Of fucking course you are

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: Make good choices

My Best Pal-bert: Slut

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: Try not to suck his dick

* * *

Race frowned at his phone and pushed it back into his pocket. He knew they were joking—at least, Jack was—but it honestly kind of stung.

“Hey, you okay?” Spot asked, slowing down a little as they reached the door to the cafeteria.

“Yeah, fine,” Race answered quietly, still frowning. He knew Albert didn’t like Spot, he got it, but he didn’t have to be such an asshole about it.

Spot came to a complete stop. “No, you’re not.”

Race shook his head, still walking. “I’m fine, Albert’s being a bitch, it’s not a big deal.”

Spot scowled, grabbing Race’s wrist before he could get too far. “Hey.”

Race jerked slightly to a stop and looked back at Spot. “What?”

“You tell me if people are messin’ with you.” Spot stepped closer, holding his gaze. “I’m not gonna let anyone be mean to my boy, you got that?”

Race couldn’t help but smile. “It’s fine, really. He’s always an asshole.”

Spot huffed, grumbling as he headed into the cafeteria, “I’ll still kick his ass.”

Race rolled his eyes. “That wouldn’t help anything, babe.”

Spot continued grumbling, something about ‘principle’ and ‘my job, now’ as he led Race over towards the lunch line. Race liked that Spot was protective. It was sweet, and there was something utterly delightful about the casual dom-ness—

(Andy: Dominance

Is the word you’re looking for

Kitty: Nope

Dom-ness

I know what I’m about, son)

—of all the ‘my boy’, ‘you’re mine’, ‘I own you’ nonsense. Of course, pairing that with Albert’s vigilantly defensive friendship was a disaster waiting to happen, but Race wasn’t all that worried.

“Did you pack your lunch?” Spot asked. “You don’t have to stand here with me, if you did.”

“Nah, wouldn’t be fair if I got a head start,” Race replied, shaking his head and rocking absently on his heels.

The gross cafeteria fare of the day consisted of sloppy joes that actually didn’t look too bad, cooked broccoli that was slightly yellowish, and cold, limp, sweet potato fries.

Spot side-eyed the broccoli a little bit. “I think they’re trying to poison us.”

“That’s why I bring mine.” Race nodded sagely.

He followed Spot over to a table near the corner, where Vince was sitting, watching something on his phone.

“Hey, Vince,” Spot greeted him as they approached

“Oh hey, Spot.” He glanced up, and his eyes widened slightly. “Anthony.”

Race nodded in greeting. “Hey.”

Spot set his plate down on the table and his backpack on the floor, then took a seat across from Vince. “Where’s Hot Shot and Myron?”

“Myron’s sitting with Meghan.” Vince jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating a table where indeed, Myron was sitting with Meghan, along with a few other girls—presumably her friends—and, as if on cue, Hot Shot appeared next to Vince. “Did we replace Myron with Anthony?” he joked.

“More like Myron replaced us with Meghan’s friends,” Spot replied.

“He doesn’t look all that happy about it,” Race pointed out. Myron was just sitting there, staring into dead space, as Meghan happily chatted with her friends.

“I think they’re in a fight, and he’s tryna get out of the doghouse,” Vince explained. “Poor sucker.”

“Odd way to go about it,” Race mused, but quickly lost interest as he pulled his lunch bag out of his backpack and emptied the contents—two ham and swiss Lunchables, a chocolate pudding cup, and a snack pack of Goldfish crackers—onto the table.

“Lunchables?” Vince scoffed. “What are you—five?”

Spot glared at him. “Say that again. I dare you.”

“I’m six, actually,” Race replied cheerfully, setting about unwrapping said Lunchables. “Had my birthday in September.”

Hot Shot laughed. “Geez, Spot. Robbin’ the cradle, are you?”

“I will kill you both in your sleep,” Spot said through gritted teeth.

Race shot a devious grin in his direction. “Nah, he can’t be blamed, he’s like the height of an eight year old, so the confusion is understandable.”

“Oh,” Spot chuckled, “you’re lucky you’re my boyfriend, or I’d be introducing your face to this table right now.”

“We’ve already met,” Race snickered, and he turned his attention to building his lunch into a complex and wobbly tower.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Hot Shot smirked at Spot, and Spot flipped him off.

Race shot another grin at Spot, but in doing so, lost his focus, and knocked over his tower—which was barely three crackers tall, anyway. Spot shook his head and reached in to repair it for him, even adding a fourth cracker to the top.

Race beamed at him. “Thanks.”

“Any time.”

Lunch with Spot and his friends was a bit weird. Race still wasn’t entirely used to Being With Spot. He liked it, certainly, it was just still very new. It was also interesting to see Spot in his chosen social circle. Up until now, Race had really only seen him in class or alone, not so much with friends or anything. He was more relaxed and talkative, joking with Hot Shot and Vince, discussing homework and families—not his own, Race noticed. He liked seeing Spot like this, happy and confident.

For a moment, he wondered about Spot’s family life. He knew his stepfather had been abusive, but that was it, and Race was nothing if not nosy, so he was curious about the details. What was his mother like? Was his bio dad still in the picture? Though all this was quickly washed away by a wave of worry regarding his own family. What were they going to say when he told them about him and Spot?

Then, Spot stole one of his Goldfish crackers.

Race squawked in outrage. “Hey!”

Spot just winked at him. Race began to sulkily count his remaining Goldfish, grumbling variants of ‘theft’, and ‘unjust dispersion of resources’, and ‘could’ve just asked’.

Spot went back to his conversation with Hot Shot and Vince, but not before resting his arm along the back of Race’s chair, bending at the elbow to absently play with the curls at the nape of his neck. Race couldn’t tell if he even knew he was doing it. Race managed to mostly suppress a happy little wiggle. While it was undeniably true that Race was a horndog of legendary status, this was always his favorite part of being in a relationship—the casual intimacies, the absent touches, the pet names. He was always a slut for idle affection. Well, he was always a slut, full stop, but he was especially always a slut for idle affection.

Unfortunately, lunch couldn’t last forever, and suddenly, it was time to go back to class.

Race swept the remains of his lunch into his paper bag and got up to head for the trash can by the entrance to the cafeteria.

Spot followed close behind. “Am I gonna see you again today?”

Race smiled. “Dunno, d’you want to?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

The smile widened to a bit of a grin. “Yeah we can probably make that happen.”

“A’right.” Spot smiled back. “Seeya later, then.”

“Seeya.” Race pressed a kiss to Spot’s lips before lightly pushing off him and heading off into the hallway.

* * *

“I’m just saying, we’ve got plain clothes cops for, like, undercover or whatever—why don’t we have  _ fancy _ clothes cops?”

Spot pursed his lips thoughtfully. “What about when undercover cops go to fancy things?”

Race waved his hand dismissively. “No, that’s different. I mean, like, a formal uniform for an elite subdivision or something.”

Honestly, Race was very lucky he was cute. Spot wouldn’t humor this bullshit for just anyone. “I don’t know, Race.” 

“Like with the FBI, they all wear suits, why not just go for it and make fancy uniforms?”

“Fancier than a suit?”

Race nodded. “Yeah, they’re already partway there, why not lean into it?”

And again, “I don’t know, Race.” They stepped through the front doors, out into the cold, and Spot put his arm around Race. “You wanna go somewhere? We could pick up some real food, go back to my aunt’s place...?”

Race shifted, gravitating closer to him, and twisted his mouth in mildly displeased contemplation. “I should go home, talk to my folks...”

Spot nodded, and then it hit him. Oh  _ shit _ . “Have you, uh...told them, yet?”

Race pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head, looking rather guilty. “Not yet...”

Spot nodded again, keeping his expression neutral, as if the only person in New York he found vaguely intimidating wasn’t Mr. Higgins. “Understandable.”

“It’s not like I’m trying to hide it or anything, I just don’t—”

“Hey, I mean it, Tony. I get it.” Spot pulled him a little closer. “Don’ worry about it.”

“I just don’t want them to freak out, y’know?” Race explained.

Spot almost laughed. “Yeah. I know.”

“We could hang out later, though? Assuming they don’t think that you somehow hypnotized me or are otherwise forcing me to date you.” Race huffed, not quite amused.

Spot twisted his mouth in displeasure. “‘Least you’re tellin’ ‘em.”

“‘R you gonna tell your aunt?”

He scoffed. “Hell, no.”

Race half shrugged. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” He didn’t sound disappointed, or even surprised.

“I’ll tell my family when I don’t need ‘em anymore,” Spot explained, cringing as that all too familiar, sour feeling tried to settle in his stomach. “You’re lucky, y’know.”

Race nodded. “I know.” He was quiet for a moment, then lightly elbowed Spot in the stomach. “Hey, if they’re chill, we can share.”

At that, Spot smiled. “I think your dad would rather die.”

Race waved dismissively again, as if knocking away Spot’s words. “He’ll come around once mom’s settled, and that won’t take long; she loves it when I’ve got a boyfriend—means I’m being less of a skank.”

Spot sputtered into laughter.

“Whaaat?” Race whined. “Better I be ruining the sanctity of marriage with just one guy at a time instead of a whole bunch, right?”c

“Right,” Spot agreed firmly, because frankly the thought of Race ‘ruining the sanctity of marriage’ with anyone else made him want to punch something.

“Plus you’ve saved my life, like, two or three times now, so she’s basically legally obligated to approve of you.”

“Yeah? And what about your dad?”

“Like I said, he’ll come around.”

* * *

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Tony?” Mr. Higgins asked. “You’re trying, aren’t you?”

Race sputtered. “What? No, I’m not trying anything!”

Mr. Higgins rested his elbows on the table, massaging his temples with his fingers. “My blood pressure is actively rising, right now.”

Race looked at his mother, gesturing helplessly.

Mrs. Higgins took a deep breath. “So, you and Sean are...”

“Dating,” Race said, nodding.

“And when did this happen?”

“This morning,” he answered, technically not lying.

Mrs. Higgins nodded slowly. “And you...want to date Sean.”

Race frowned slightly. “Well yeah, I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t want to.”

“Why?” Mr. Higgins groaned into his hands.

“‘Cause I like him, dad!” Race was trying very hard not to get frustrated. He had gone into this knowing it was going to be an uphill battle. “Yeah, we had a pretty bad start, but really it was misunderstanding—and my fault!”

“I like Thin Mints, bud. That doesn’t mean they’re good for me.”

Race groaned. “Dad he’s  _ nice _ to me.” Mr. Higgins began to protest, but Race continued quickly. “I already said things started bad, and all that was my fault. He was just reacting to the shit I was throwing at him!”

“Reacting violently,” Mr. Higgins pointed out.

“I hit him, too!”

“You left fewer bruises.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Race grumbled.

“That’s...part of the problem, Tony.” Mrs. Higgins reached for his hand. “I just don’t know if this is a healthy relationship.”

“Mom, it was me overreacting,” Race argued. “I flipped out and aggravated things, and he reacted. I was the one that escalated everything, and once it all got figured out it was fine!”

“Then I don’t know if it’s healthy for  _ him _ , sweetie.”

Mr. Higgins dropped his hands. “ _ He _ is not our job, Rachel.”

“ _ Tony _ isn’t our job, he’s our  _ son _ .”

“I never said he wasn’t.”

Race groaned, dragging his hands down his face.

“It’s our job,” Mr. Higgins continued, “to look out for Tony,  _ because _ he is our son.”

Race understood how all this must look to his parents, but he didn’t know how to explain that it was okay. “Dad, Sean’s looking out for me, too. He’s saved my life, like, twice now.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Mr. Higgins argued. “You don’t owe him—”

“He didn’t have to come looking for me in Brooklyn. He didn’t have to hang out with me after school. It’s not like he just happened to run into me, it was on purpose.”

“And you think he did those things because he’s looking out for you?”

“Joel—” Mrs. Higgins tried to interrupt, to no avail.

“Because I think it’s much more likely that he wants something from you, Tony, and it’s high time you stop letting boys use you.”

“Wh—” Race looked at his dad, a little bit shocked. “I think he did those things cause he  _ likes me _ . He  _ cares _ about me.”

Mr. Higgins sighed. “Tony—”

“What could he be after, dad?” Race interrupted, voice pitching up a bit as he got more agitated. “We’re already sleeping together, so what  _ advantage _ would come from dating me, if that’s not what he’s after?”

The room fell deadly silent, and Race realized that, besides that first time when he’d come home all marked up, his parents hadn’t known that he and Spot were sleeping together. He stifled a groan. Well, shit.

His mother set her hands in her lap, staring blankly at her plate. She took a shaky breath. “Are you being safe?”

“Yes, of course,” he assured her quietly.

Mr. Higgins just shook his head, and it looked strangely like giving up.

Race felt like he should apologize, but he also didn’t feel like he’d actually done anything wrong. They  _ were _ being safe, and Spot  _ did _ care. “I like him,” Race continued quietly, “and he likes me.”

His father looked up and met his eyes. “Then you tell him that if he hurts you, if he so much as raises his voice at you, I will make his life a living hell.”

Race sighed. “He already knows you hate him, Dad, I don’t need to tell him.”

“Tell him anyway.”

He sighed again. “Yeah...”

“We love you more than anything, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins said, taking his hand again. “We want you to be happy.”

Race huffed quietly. “I’m trying.”

* * *

Once the dishes were cleared, Race headed upstairs, shutting his door behind him. He had a little time before dance, and at this point he didn’t really want to go anyway. He went to his desk, opening a drawer to dig through the back until his fingers found the thick paper corner of a box of cigarettes, which he pulled out and slid into his pocket, along with the lighter beside it, as he crossed the room to his window. Race unlatched the window and slid it open, easily popping the screen out and putting it aside before he hoisted himself up onto the windowsill and slipped out onto the roof. He shut the window behind him, shifting to the side to lean back against the bit of wall between the section of the roof he was on and the section that covered the upstairs. He let out a heavy exhale, wrapping himself a bit tighter in his hoodie, and pulled out a cigarette, pinching it between his lips to light it. He crossed his eyes a tiny bit to look at the smoldering end that burned brighter as he took a slow drag, holding it for a moment before exhaling again, taking a quiet comfort in the plume of smoke. He had expected the conversation to go badly, and that’s what he’d gotten. What had thrown him was Mrs. Higgins’ suggestion that maybe he wasn’t good for Spot, as opposed to the other way around. That hurt, coming from his own mom, but it was probably true. He was a loose cannon if there ever was one, and eventually he hurt everyone who got close, but before he could dwell too much on this line of thinking, his phone buzzed with an incoming text.

‘Snack-Size Satan’ asked, “ _ How’d they take it? _ ”

Race snorted, amused, and clicked into his contact list to add a heart and a winky face emoji onto the end of Spot’s contact, before replying. “ _ About as bad as I expected from dad, mild threats and all, and mom thinks I’m not good for you. _ ”

“ _ I think you said that backward _ s”

“ _ Nah, my mom wouldn’t threaten you. _ ”

“ _ No _ ,” Spot explained, “ _ you said your mom doesn’t think YOU’re good enough for ME _ ”

“ _ Right _ ”

“ _ Well shit _ ” Another text came in immediately. “ _ That’s fucking cold _ ” And another. “ _ Are you okay? _ ”

A small, not quite sad smile crept onto Race’s face. This right here—this was the problem. Spot was sweet and caring and gentle, but no one else got to see it. He had such a rough exterior, and he was locked tight, unwilling to really let people in. All Mr. and Mrs. Higgins had seen of him—be it directly, or through Race—was harsh and violent and even a little bit cruel. Race felt at least a bit at fault, but at the same time, what could he have done otherwise?

He tapped out a short response, then took another drag on his cigarette. “ _ I guess _ ”

“ _ I can come get you, if you want _ ”

Race smiled again. Damn sweet thing. “ _ Nah, I have dance in a bit, anyway. _ ”

“ _ What do you do at dance? _ ” Spot asked. “ _ Like I know you dance but is it like practice or lessons or what _ ”

“ _ Yeah there’s class, and then I usually hang out and practice by myself. The studio offers a bunch of different styles, so it’s not just the same thing over and over. _ ”

“ _ Like, I’ve seen you dance but not fancy _ ”

Race huffed in quiet amusement, remembering their mini homecoming in a mental hospital. “ _ Yeah, I don’t really do ‘fancy’ in front of people _ ”

“ _ why not? _ ”

“ _ cause it’s not for them, it’s for me” _ He quickly typed out another message. “ _ I always feel awkward when I know someone’s watching, I get all messed up _ .”

“ _ I gotcha. Game’s always harder than practice _ ”

That piqued Race’s endless curiosity. “ _ You do sports? _ ”

“ _ No, not anymore _ ”

“ _ What did you play? _ ”

“ _ Football _ ”

He huffed in amusement. “ _ Of course you did _ ”

“ _ What does that mean? _ ”

“ _ You’re basically the mini human version of an angry bull _ .“ Race giggled, fidgeting with the (unlit) end of his cigarette with his tongue.

“ _ Oh, fuck you _ ,” Spot replied. “ _ It’s a good thing ur pretty _ ”

Race grinned. “ _ Please do, but not right now, cause I’ve gotta get to the studio. _ ”

He slid his phone into his pocket again, plucking his cigarette out of his mouth to grind it out against the rough tile of the roof—it occurred to him, as he did it, that this was honestly a bad idea, and although not likely to set the house on fire, it was still a possibility—before sliding the window open again and dropping inside.

One more text from Spot came in. “ _ Alright gorgeous. Seeya tomorrow. Have a good night _ ”

Race grinned at his phone. Oh, this was bad, this was very bad. Racetrack ‘I Know We Just Met But I Think You’re Different’ Higgins was no stranger to love; he fell frequently, and he fell fast—granted, he usually fell out just as fast as he fell in, but who cares about the details—and this? This was baaaaad. Spot was insufferably attractive, and not only that, but he was  _ nice _ , he was  _ really _ nice, and that meant Race was doomed.


	46. Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it sounds like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quarantine sucks more than Racetrack Higgins in the porta-potty at a Pride parade.

“I can’t believe we only get three days,” Race groaned.

“Less talking, more moving, honey,” Mrs. Higgins said, speaking loudly to be heard over the vacuum.

“Charlie didn’t have school all week!” Race complained. “It’s not fair!”

“Tony, sweetie.”

He flung himself over the arm of the couch to save his toes from the approaching vacuum. “Mom, you vacuumed yesterday.”

“I know, but then your father went to the store,” she replied, still mostly focused on the traditional, last minute,, ‘we have guests coming’ panic. “Oh,, that reminds me—can you go help him with the groceries?”

Race nodded and vaulted lightly over the back of the couch to head to the kitchen without disrupting the vacuum’s course. Mr. Higgins was at the counter, unloading one of five cloth grocery bags full of the necessary accoutrements for a Higgins family Thanksgiving. Race headed over to perch on one of the high chairs at the kitchen island and pulled a bag towards him.

“How’s she holding up?” Mr. Higgins asked with an amused smile.

“I think I stepped on the carpet,” Race replied seriously. “She’s gonna have to do the whole house again.”

“Welp. Back into foster care with you, then.”

“Aww, shucks,” Race snickered, setting a fifth canister of Reddi-wip down on the counter.

“Huh, I can’t really make that joke anymore, can I?” Mr. Higgins mused, on his way back to the counter from putting the vat of butter he’d brought home into the fridge. “You’re  _ all grown up, now _ .” He pretended to sniffle.

“HA!” Race cackled. “Can’t get rid of me now!”

Mr. Higgins ruffled his hair, then scooped all the Reddi-wip up in his arms and headed back to the fridge.

Race hefted a mega can of pumpkin onto the counter and reached back into the bag for the second one. “I’m glad Mom gave up on the whole ‘mashing pumpkins ourselves’ thing. That was way too much work.”

Mr. Higgins chuckled. “I’m pretty sure it was more about your pumpkin seed artillery than the work.”

“We had the seeds, I found an empty wrapping paper roll, what was I supposed to do?”

“Tony!” Mrs. Higgins called from the other room. “Please come put your games away! You can get them back out later if you want to play them!”

Race slid off the chair, saluting his father. “Into no man’s land.”

* * *

Mr. Higgins' brother was first to arrive, along with his wife and kids.

“Hey Rob,” Mr. Higgins greeted him with a typical hand clasp, shoulder check, back pat, guy hug, then smiled at his sister-in-law. “Lisa.”

“Hi Joel,” she answered happily.

Mrs. Higgins was only a step behind, coming over for hugs and greetings as well, with Race trailing in her wake. His aunt and uncle greeted him warmly—his cousins, a little less so.

“Hey, Max.”

Even though she was only three years older than him, Max always acted like Race was a child. She offered him a not quite sincere smile. “Hey, Tony.”

Sam, being the younger of the two at nineteen, didn’t really have the option to treat Race like a kid, but that didn’t make him any fonder of Race. It wasn’t entirely clear  _ why _ they didn’t like him. It seemed sometimes like they just didn’t like him butting in on their family—hopping on the train while it was already moving, as it were.

They all moved into the living room to chat. Mr. Higgins and his brother weren’t extremely close, but they were quite fond of each other and were quickly locked in conversation.

“We’re going to put our stuff in your room, Tony,” Max said as she and Sam started up the stairs.

Race went through a very brief mental checklist to make sure there was nothing incriminating sitting out, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“So, Tony,” his uncle Rob began, “how’s senior year treating you?”

Race let out a small huff of laughter. “Pretty rough start, but things are mostly good now.”

“Have you decided on a college, yet?”

“I uh...haven’t gotten a chance to do much looking, so far. I’m gonna see what I can do in the spring, but I might have to take a gap year...”

“At least a semester,” his mother offered. “But you know we’ll support you, no matter what.”

Race nodded, shrugging a bit. “I can probably find a good one in time, if I get my butt in gear.”

“Max was the same way,” Aunt Lisa told him. “She wanted to go, but we had to force her to fill out applications.”

“Oh yeah, I wanna go, sure. I just haven’t had a lot of time,” Race explained, not particularly wanting to go into the hospital stuff, but expecting it would be forced on him at some point over the holiday.

“It  _ is _ a busy time,” Uncle Rob agreed, nodding. “You said things are going well now, though?”

Race nodded. “Yeah. School’s good.” He smiled. “Got a boyfriend; he’s pretty great.”

Aunt Lisa smiled. “That’s wonderful, Tony! What’s his name?”

“Sean. He’s my project partner in AP Bio.” His smile turned into a grin.

After a few minutes, Sam and Max came back down, and family catch up chatter continued for a little while. At about three forty-five, Mrs. Higgins’ younger brother, Teddy, arrived with their mother. Race grinned when he saw the car pull in, Grandma Miller and Uncle Teddy were his favorites of the extended family. Teddy was super fun, and Grandma Miller was basically what you’d get if Santa Claus was real, but he and Mrs. Claus got divorced, and she went off and married some guy named Laurence. She was basically the ideal grandma. Baking cookies, telling stories from when she was a kid, all sorts of stories of the fifties—she swears she met Elvis once, “But unfortunately I was already with your grandfather, so that was that.”—the sixties, and so on. Though she was rather homophobic, in a mostly harmless sort of way, so maybe not  _ ideal _ …

Mrs. Higgins met her and Teddy at the door, and Grandma Miller’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Anthony!” she exclaimed excitedly, reaching out to pull him into a hug.

Race beamed, darting over and ducking under his mother’s arm to—very gently and carefully—tackle his grandmother. “Hi, Grandma!”

She squeezed, the way only grandmas can—suffocatingly, with arm strength that only exists when hugging their grandchildren. “Oh, Anthony darling, you’ve gone and gotten all grown up!”

Race laughed. “Grandma I’ve only grown like two or three inches since last year.”

She placed her hands on his cheeks and squished. “But you’ve gotten so handsome!”

Another laugh. “Yeah, okay, I can’t deny that one.”

Mrs. Higgins rolled her eyes affectionately, and greeted her little brother before taking her turn for a hug from Grandma Miller.

Teddy clapped Race on the shoulder. “Tony, my man.”

“Hey Uncle Teddy.” Race greeted happily.

“I’ll help you get set in your room,” Mrs. Higgins offered. She took Grandma Higgins’ bag and headed for the guest room that was just down the hall, next to the office. Uncle Rob and Aunt Lisa were taking the couch, which was actually a fold-out, and Max and Sam were camping out on Race’s floor. Yay for passive aggressive exclusion sleepovers.

Teddy followed Mrs. Higgins with his bag, and Grandma Miller trailed after, making absent comments about how nice the house looked as she went. The general chat in the living room picked up again, and after a moment Race picked up his phone and tapped out a quick text.

“ _ hey _ ”

He didn’t really have anything to say to Spot, he just wanted to talk to him.

Spot returned, “ _ Hey gorgeous _ ,” a couple minutes later.

Race smiled. “ _ whatcha doin? _ ”

“ _ nothing important” _

“ _ Wrong _ ” Race sent another text immediately. “ _ The answer is ‘not you, sadly’ _ ”

“ _ You’re going to be the death of me _ ”

He replied with a pile of hearts and winky faces, along with a few eggplant emojis sprinkled in for flavor.

Of course, Teddy chose this moment to return to the living room and walk right behind him. “Who ya texting?” he asked, grinning.

Race grinned as well, clicking the screen off. “M’ new boyfriend.”

“Another one?” Teddy teased, poking at Race’s arm.

Race huffed poutily. “The last one was like, almost a year ago.”

“Well, tell me about this one.” Teddy copped a seat in the armchair and looked up at Race expectantly.

He grinned, more than happy to gush about Spot to a willing audience. “Well, first off, he’s super pretty, but he’s also real nice, and like, protective and stuff. He’s smart, too—we’re project partners in AP Bio. He’s kind of a jerk, but in a good way.”

Teddy nodded. “That’s the best kind of person.”

Race grin widened even more. “See? I’m glad  _ someone _ gets it.”

Teddy’s gaze focused on someone behind him, and he raised an eyebrow, which almost certainly meant one of Race’s parents was giving him a look. “Do you have any pictures?”

Race frowned a bit. “Huh, I don’t. I’ll have to fix that.”

Teddy nodded again. “We need to see the boyfriend. Right, Lisa?”

“Oh, definitely!” Lisa responded from the couch.

“I can ask him for a picture, I guess.” Race shrugged.

“ _ Hey, my family wants to know what you look like _ ”

“ _ Dude your family knows what I look like? _ ”

“ _ No I mean like my uncles and everyone. _ ”

“ _ oh okay I guess _ ” After a minute or so, a picture came in of Spot sitting at his desk with Lizzie on his shoulder, except Lizzie was biting his cheek and his face was all scrunched up in displeasure. “ _ That went well _ ”

Race laughed, saving the picture to his camera roll before turning the phone towards Teddy. “That’s him, and the bird is Lizzie.”

“Looks like you’ve got competition,” Teddy snickered.

“Yeah, I know I’m the side chick.”

“Let me see!” Aunt Lisa said, shifting so she could lean over the arm of the couch.

Race angled the phone her way, delighted to be showing off.

She smiled. “Aw, that’s cute.”

“What’s cute?” Grandma Miller asked as she came toddling back into the room. “I want to see cute!”

“My new boyfriend,” Race answered, “and I guess the bird, too.”

“The bird is very cute.” Aunt Lisa nodded. “What is it?”

“Uhhh, some fruity lookin’ thing that isn’t as loud or annoying as advertised.”

By this time, Grandma had made it over to Race, and she did that thing older people always do where they take your phone and hold it really far away and squint at it. “Oh, that’s nice, Anthony.”

Race smiled at her. “That’s Sean, and the bird is Lizzie.  _ I  _ picked ‘Bertha’, but he changed it.”

“You’ve always had such nice friends. I do love hearing about them.”

Race smiled a bit tightly. Oh boy. “I wouldn’t count Sean  _ or _ Lizzie as a friend, per say...”

“Friend, acquaintance,” Grandma waved dismissively.

Mrs. Higgins sighed. “Sean is his  _ boyfriend _ , Mom.”

Race knew she was defending his sexuality, more than Spot specifically, but it still felt good. “Yup, made it official just this week.”

“Oh, Rachel,” Grandma tutted, turning to pat her daughter on the cheek, “ _ all _ the kids are experimenting with that queer stuff, these days. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Race tried very hard not to laugh or roll his eyes, but he didn’t do a great job, so it was more of just an explosive exhale. He tried not to mind. Grandma Miller meant well. She was a sweet old lady, and she loved him very much—hell, she was probably even more excited about his adoption than his parents were—but she was also an old lady. She wasn’t old enough to be crazy racist, but everyone has their sticking point.

For a few minutes, Race got lost in contemplation of what the new fight for equality would be when he was old and intolerant—maybe furries? Though who wouldn’t think dogs should vote? By the time he focused again, the conversation had drifted on to discussion of uncle Teddy’s new job. He was lovingly regarded as the family disaster—smart kid, but dropped out of college to try and make it big with his garage rock band, which of course didn’t work out, and he’d been job hopping ever since, never really holding anything down. Apparently he’d sort of moved back in with Grandma Miller—Grandpa Miller had owned a couple of rental properties out in Jersey, and since he passed, Grandma had been living in one of the nicer duplexes, still running everything, and apparently they just moved Teddy into the other side. 

“This way I’m closer, and I can help with the upkeep and the tenants and whatever,” Teddy explained.

The evening passed pleasantly enough—time with extended family is always a little weird, and especially so for Race, having become part of the family about halfway through—and after dinner and a few rounds of dominoes and hearts—Grandma Miller was very passionate about weird old people games—good nights were said, and Race and his cousins headed up to his room as the grown ups settled in for the night downstairs.

* * *

“I just think it’s silly that we don’t get a hotel,” Max complained. “There’s not enough space for nine people in this house.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong,” Race agreed.  _ He _ certainly wouldn’t be disappointed not to share his room.

“Yeah, especially if you’re just gonna shove us on the floor,” Sam grumbled, laying out his sleeping bag as far away from Race’s bed as possible.

“I’m not shoving anyone,” Race answered, climbing into his bed. “This is a twin, it’s not like there’s room.”

Sam scoffed. “ _ You _ could take the floor. We’re the guests, after all.”

Race chuckled with a tight smirk. “I somehow doubt you’d wanna sleep in a bed I’ve shared with my boyfriend.”

Sam wrinkled up his nose in disgust. “Dude.”

“Hey, I’m just tryin’ to watch out for you,” Race answered with a shrug.

“We don’t want to hear about your sexploits, Tony,” Max huffed. “We don’t have the time.”

“I wasn’t offerin’,” he replied, rolling his eyes lightly. “You asked why I get the bed, an’ that’s why.”

“Why? You don’t wash your sheets?” Sam sneered.

“Of course I wash my sheets. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Max sighed. “Do you really want to sleep in the bed he gets fucked in?”

Race nodded, gesturing towards her in a ‘See? She gets it’ sort of way.

Sam just rolled his eyes and rolled over to go to sleep, and Max shut her eyes as well. Race sighed quietly, shifting around to get comfortable. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his cousin—no, actually it  _ was _ that he didn’t like his cousins. But he didn’t like them because they didn’t like him. They were subtle enough, but Race could see that they didn’t think of him as family, like he ‘didn’t count’ cause he’d been adopted, or maybe it was because he’d been adopted so late. Either way, they didn’t want him to be part of their family, and even though we’re kind of assholes, that flat rejection still hurt.

* * *

Thursday was a wonderful kind of hectic almost the moment people started moving. After coffee and breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins began to cook. As always, they insisted they didn’t need help, and everyone should just relax and enjoy the day, and as always, Race and Grandma Miller took turns sneaking into the kitchen to help—or to steal samples—and quickly being chased away. At one point, Race was inbound to see how many green beans he could nab without being noticed, and he paused in the doorway to watch and smile at his parents—Mr. Higgins had on a Thanksgiving themed apron that had an orange ruffle around the bottom, and Mrs. Higgins had one that was gingham, and almost painfully Little House on the Prairie-esque—as they slow danced together in the kitchen to whatever song was playing on the radio. He watched them for a moment, thinking about how lucky he was to have been blessed with this amazing family, and how much he hoped that someday he’d have a relationship like his parents did. Then, he realized that this was a perfect distraction, and resumed his tip-toed venture for green beans.

* * *

“I think Tony should say grace, this year.”

Race choked on the mashed potatoes he definitely wasn’t already eating—what are you talking about?—and looked, horrified, at his grandmother. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re all grown up, now!” Grandma Miller insisted. “Your father’s not the only man of the house.”

Race whined. “Nooo, I’m the baby!”

Mr. Higgins chuckled. “You’ll always be our baby, bud.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and Race decided  _ not _ to kick him under the table, because today was a day of thankfulness, and while he was thankful that he had good long legs for kicking, that didn’t mean he should use them.

“Fine, fine, okay,” he grumbled, and everyone reached out to hold hands around the table, and bowed their heads as Race spoke. “God is neat, thanks for the meat, now let’s eat.”

Mr. Higgins snorted.

Race grinned. “Grandma goes first for thankfulness.”

“Oh, I’m just thankful to be alive another year!” Grandma chuckled.

There was general laughter around the table, which thankfully drowned out Race’s very quiet, “Big mood.”

“You next, Rachel,” Grandma ordered, nudging her daughter with her elbow.

Mrs. Higgins smiled. “I’m thankful for my family—my husband,” she placed her hand on the back of Race’s neck, “my not-so-little boy, a job that lets me work from home so I can still be his mom.”

Race smiled. “Just like every year; I’m thankful you guys kept me.”

And, just like every year, his mother burst into tears. “Oh, Tony...”

“Mom, nooo.” He let go of his dad’s hand to turn and hug his mother.

Teddy sighed heavily. “Tony broke the circle. We have to start all over, now.”

“No, I didn’t, I got my foot on ‘im!” Race declared, having indeed placed his foot on Mr. Higgins’ foot so the circle was still whole.

Mr. Higgins chuckled and patted Race’s back. “Well,  _ I’m _ thankful for the man Tony’s become—smart, kind, funny, with a big heart and an even bigger personality.”

Uncle Rob was next, and he was thankful for his new job that Race had somehow missed in the conversation yesterday. Aunt Lisa was thankful for her family and her wonderful—according to her—children. Sam was thankful to finally be finished with high school, and Max was thankful for the new apartment she shared with some friends.

“And I’m thankful that we’re finally done being thankful so we can  _ eat! _ ” Teddy said, and the others laughed.

Dinner passed with mild, pleasant conversation, and afterwards Race cleared the table so they could play Monopoly. Rachel Caroline Higgins was many things—a devoted wife, a wonderful mother, a loving daughter. She was also an evil, capitalist genius, when it came to the world of Monopoly. This meant that Race always won, because she always let him, which was fine with Race. He wasn’t a huge fan of Monopoly in the first place, so he didn’t really care either way. It drove Max and Sam crazy though, which was more of an added bonus to be honest. He knew he shouldn’t be intentionally antagonistic to his cousins, but it was sort of hard not to be—they were so determined to dislike him that no matter  _ what _ he did it rubbed them the wrong way. It used to bother him, but eventually his parents had managed to convince him that no one gets along with  _ all _ their relatives. Despite what one might guess, Race had no problem being disliked by people. He was a top line attention whore, no doubt, but it was okay if it was negative attention. Although he was very adorable and charming and smart—just ask him, he’ll tell you—he was also a grade A sarcastic jackass, so there was actually a good number of people who avidly disliked him, but those people disliked him for who he was as a person; his cousins disliked him simply for existing. His aunt and uncle loved him well enough, so he wasn’t sure where they got it from or if there was anything he could do to fix it.

After the game, Teddy and Grandma Miller packed up to go home. They still had a long way to drive back to Jersey, and Grandma Miller didn’t like being out and about late. Not too long after they left, Uncle Rob and the rest headed out as well. As the evening wore on, Higgins Thanksgiving ended the way it always did, with Race on the couch between his parents, watching whatever family movie the Hallmark channel decided to show. Race usually fell asleep by the time the movie was over. His first few years of being a Higgins, his father would then carry him upstairs and tuck him in, but that pretty much stopped after he hit his growth spurt. He was still carryable, of course, but not in a way one would be able to comfortably sleep through. Waking up on the couch quickly became the new tradition, and it made for a rather convenient morning the next day, when Race would wake up bright and early and charge into his parents room, demanding they go get the boxes of Christmas decorations out of the garage. One year, he set an alarm on his phone to start blaring Here Comes Santa Claus at midnight. Usually though, he waited until morning. He was still a mostly normal teenage boy, which meant sleep was a sacred thing, only to be sacrificed for the mightiest of needs. He didn’t ever sleep in late when he was on the couch, anyway; the living room windows were in the right spot for him to get a face full of sunshine at around seven a.m., and that made for a gentle, but effective awakening.

* * *

A few minutes after seven, Race received said face full of sunshine and rolled lightly off of the couch to head towards his parents room and knock rapidly—but lightly—on their door. There was a light shuffling to be heard, and then the door opened, revealing Mr. Higgins in his pajamas.

“Morning, bud.”

“It’s Christmas,” Race announced, rubbing the sleep out of his own eyes with his knuckles.

“It’s November twenty-ninth.”

He nodded. “First day of Christmas.”

Mr. Higgins chuckled and ruffled Race’s hair. “Okay, I’ll start on breakfast.”

Race wandered blearily towards the kitchen, tapping out a message to Spot. “ _ Merry Christmas _ ” Of course, it was wildly unlikely that Spot would reply until much later, seeing as most people didn’t wake up at seven in the morning the day after Thanksgiving.

Race connected his phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen and went hunting for a satisfactory Christmas music playlist on Spotify. Mrs. Higgins wandered in then, sleepy but smiling.

“Good morning.”

“M’r Chri’mas,” Race replied. Every year, he regretted his choice to wake up so early on purpose, but he always did it again the next year. It was kind of nice, after all. The house got decorated, he got to spend quality time with his parents, and Christmas season officially began.

It wasn’t until about ten that Spot replied with a facepalm emoji, then, “ _ Merry Christmas, Race _ .”

Race grinned at his phone, and quickly sent back about eight different Christmas-y emojis. He was absolutely delighted that Spot had started properly buying into his bullshit. They’d only been a proper thing for three days, and Race could already tell that he was a goner. Spot was observant in a way Race wasn’t used to, and not just observant but responsive—playing with his hair, answering without questioning the ‘Merry Christmas’, his protectiveness. Race didn’t have a lot of experience with people like that, especially not dating someone like that.

He slid his phone into his pocket, and the clattering of his phone hitting the kitchen floor reminded him that he was still wearing sweatpants, which do not actually  _ have _ back pockets. Shaking his head, mildly amused, he reached to pick up his phone and put it into a side pocket that  _ was _ there, so he could help his dad with breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon: Thanksgiving 2, Electric Boogaloo


	47. Thanksgiving 2, Electric Boogaloo

Spot never really liked Thanksgiving. Growing up, he’d always spent it with Mark’s family (‘your father’s side of the family’, his mother called them). He hated when Mark tried to play ‘good dad’ in front of people, as if ‘add a few more bruises to Sean’s person’ wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes at home. A fun hobby for the weekends. He wasn’t disappointed in the slightest when Aunt Beth told him she had to work on Thanksgiving, nor was he particularly annoyed that Race apparently thought Christmas started the day Thanksgiving ended. It did stress him out a little, as he realized that he would now have to get Race something for Christmas, and what the fuck did one get Racetrack Higgins, the human fever dream, as a gift? Of course, this was only relevant if they stayed together that long, which was iffy, considering their personalities.

Another message pinged in from Race—Santa Claus emoji, a snowman, three Christmas trees, a pregnant lady? More Christmas trees, some snowflakes, a  _ different _ snowman, and then nine boars.

Spot chuckled. “ _ You missed one _ ” he replied, then sent back a deer emoji.

Two more messages came in from Race. “ _ No, there’s only nine _ ”

“ _ I missed _ ”

Nine deer emojis this time.

“ _ wait shit nine is planets _ ”

Another text. “ _ not reindeer _ ”

And another. “ _ FUCJ _ ”

Spot burst out laughing. He hadn’t laughed so hard in a long ass time, and it felt good. “ _ You’re an idiot _ ”

The reply came quickly. “ _ fuck off I’m a genius _ ”

“ _ dumbest genius I’ve ever met _ ”

“ _ shut the hell your mouth _ ”

Spot shook his head and went back to what he was doing before Race texted, which was scrolling through PornHub Gay, not actually watching anything, just endlessly scrolling. As it turned out, Race had ruined him for everything sexual that wasn’t, well,  _ Race _ , which was wildly inconvenient.

About a minute later, another text buzzed in. “ _ no I didn’t mean it come back _ ”

“ _ I didn’t go anywhere _ ” Spot replied.

There was a slight pause before the next message. “ _ so how was your thanksgiving? _ ”

“ _ Fine. Just a normal day really. Aunt Beth had to work _ ”

There was a pause, and then a rapid fire of short texts. “ _ you mean _ ”

“ _ you spent thanksgiving _ ”

“ _ alone? _ ”

Another short pause, but Spot didn’t have time to reply before another onslaught.

“ _ what did you do with all the turkey? _ ”

“ _ did you even HAVE turkey??? _ ”

“ _ did you have anything??? _ ”

Spot scoffed. “ _ I had a ham sandwich and some instant mac and cheese. It’s not a big deal _ ”

Even though he lived twenty minutes away, Spot was pretty sure he heard Race drop his phone and gasp in horror.

He knew he should probably try to be productive, so he headed to the computer to work on homework. No sense in getting behind over the stupidly short holiday. He was starting to look forward to finals—not in excitement, by any means, but they were on his radar. As far as he could tell, he didn’t have any reason to worry about his grades, but that didn’t mean he didn’t do it. He would have to go back to Philadelphia for winter break—he couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse not to—but as long as his grades turned out good and he stayed out of trouble, his arrangement with Aunt Beth would stand for the Spring semester.

A couple hours passed with no ridiculous reply from Race, and suddenly Spot was done with his homework. Although they hadn’t been official long enough for Spot to actually know, he was fairly certain that Race was the ‘text constantly throughout the day no matter what’ type, so the silent period was a bit surprising. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, however, before the doorbell rang.

With a scowl—because who the fuck was at his door on a Friday, interrupting his precious boredom? He’d had enough of surprise visitors for the week—he got up to answer it. He opened the door and was surprised to see his idiot boyfriend on the porch, with a couple of plastic bags in his arms.

“Hey babe,” Race greeted, grinning, and moved to push past Spot into the living room.

“Uh, come on in?” Spot huffed. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I didn’t?” Race asked, clearly knowing that he didn’t.

“No, you didn’t,” Spot confirmed, closing the door behind them. “What’s this about?”

Race was already headed for the kitchen. “Thanksgiving!”

“That was yesterday, baby.”

“For most people, yeah.”

Spot begrudgingly followed Race into the kitchen, because honestly, what else could he do? When Race made his mind up, there was no doing anything about it.

He had set the bags down and was emptying one of them, setting Tupperware containers full of food out onto the counter. “You’re not allergic to anything, right?”

“Did you lace the mashed potatoes with amoxicillin?”

Race looked up at Spot and smiled. “No. Should I have?”

“Not unless you want to give me a rash.”

He snickered. “Maybe next time.”

“So,” Spot came to stand by Race, “you just decided to pop over with a shit ton of leftovers because...?”

“‘Cause you didn’t get dinner!” He replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I made mac and cheese. It was fine.”

Race scoffed. “Not for Thanksgiving.”

Spot smiled. This was sweet, in a really intense, presumptuous, Race kind of way.

“Okay I wasn’t sure what you like, so I just brought some of everything,” Race explained, putting the last container on the counter. “Turkey—obviously—mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potato casserole, stuffing, cheesy potatoes, green bean casserole—I think it’s gross, but some people like it so I brought it just in case—my aunt Lisa makes these really good yeasty bread rolls, so I brought a few of those—”

He was still babbling. Dear god how could you even fit so much variety in a single meal?

“It’s great, Race,” Spot cut him off in the middle of a detailed explanation of how his mom made the pumpkin pie. “Really. Thank you.”

Race smiled a soft, understated smile that Spot hadn’t seen before. “Well yeah, ‘course.”

Spot smiled back. “Guess we should get microwaving, huh?”

* * *

“So what’s in the other bags?” Spot asked once they finished eating.

“Oh, Christmas stuff,” Race replied, still picking a bread roll apart with his fingers and eating it one small bit at a time, like some bizarre, human-shaped squirrel.

Spot quirked an eyebrow. “Christmas stuff?”

“Yeah, lights n’ wreaths n’ whatever.”

“What, you...want to decorate my aunt’s house?” Spot asked.

“Well yeah,” Race scoffed, like this was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.

* * *

“Babe, look.”

Spot glanced back over his shoulder, diverting his attention from attempting to get the shitty little star topper on the artificial tree he’d found in Beth’s garage.

Race stood at the base of the step ladder, a few steps back, grinning like a goddamn fool, with a sprig of fake mistletoe tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

Spot scoffed, amused. “Hey, shouldn’t you be the one tryin’ to put a thing on a tall thing?” He gestured to the top of the tree.

“I mean, I guess,” Race answered, still grinning, “but this way I can look at your butt.”

Spot rolled his eyes and turned back to the tree, and Race pouted loudly as he turned to begin unpackaging the lights he brought.

“I’ll suck your dick later,” Spot chuckled, then cheered himself as he finally got the star on top of the tree. He stepped down off the ladder to admire his work, and was immediately dragged back half a stumbling step as Race slung his arms around his hips and pulled him close. Spot decided not to fight the little half-smile on his lips. “You know, you’re the clingiest guy I’ve ever dated. Maybe the clingiest I’ve ever met.”

“What’s your point?” Race sounded rather proud of Spot’s observation.

“No point,” Spot confessed, leaning back against him.

Race hummed, pressed against his back and holding Spot securely. After a moment of quiet, he huffed lightly, amused. “I’m gonna make you mad.”

Spot’s eyebrows went up. “Oh yeah?”

Race let go and stepped around Spot, closer to the tree. “It’s crooked.” He reached out and adjusted the star, a few inches shy of needing to go on his tiptoes.

Spot crossed his arms over his chest, grumbling. “I told you that you should’ve just done it in the first place...”

“Yeah, but I wanted to look at your butt.”

Spot huffed in annoyance. “Is all that’s left the lights?”

“And the tinsel, and the ornaments.” Race nodded, and the light caught the golden glitter that had made its way from the decorations to his hands and into his hair.

Spot narrowed his eyes. This guy had really gone all out, for no apparent reason other than to spend time with him. No one had ever put in this kind of effort, before. Spot wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. “Nah.”

Race blinked a little owlishly. “‘Nah’?”

Spot took a step forward. “We’re taking a break.” He put his right hand on Race’s left side and the other on the back of Race’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

“But we still gotta—” As seemed to be a common theme between them, the rest of Race’s sentence was lost as their lips met. It’s not that Spot was intentionally trying to shut him up, it’s just that he rarely stopped talking, so Spot’s options were limited. Thankfully, Race very quickly gave up trying to talk, and leaned into Spot’s touch as he kissed back.

Race was like a drug, Spot realized. He would come in when you least expected it, drive you crazy, take over your life, and you couldn’t let him go. No—no matter what he did to you, you would keep on wanting more.

Spot broke the kiss to breathe, but tightened his grip on Race. He needed him close. He needed his hands on him. Race’s hands were fisted in the sides of Spot’s shirt, and he tilted his head down a bit to lean his forehead against Spot’s. For a minute, they just stayed there. Spot considered taking Race to bed. They had the time and the house to themselves. When he thought about it, though, he was thoroughly surprised to realize that he didn’t want to. Not right then. He just wanted to hold on to Race, both literally and figuratively.

_ Lucky to have him _ , he thought.

“You good?” Race asked him softly.

“Yeah,” he answered in kind. He placed a short, soft kiss on Race’s lips. “I kinda like you, is all.”

Race chuckled quietly. “Well, I’d hope so.”

“Come on.”

Spot led him over to the couch and sat down, and Race followed, sitting close beside him, Spot put an arm around his shoulders and brushed his lips over his cheek.

Race smiled, wrinkling his nose up a bit. “Why’re you bein’ all soft and cute and whatever?”

“You want me to stop?”

“No, but that’s not a real answer,” Race retorted.

Spot leaned his head up to look Race in the eye. “Do you think I need a reason to be nice to you?”

“Well yeah, everyone’s got a reason for everything.”

He supposed that was true. He also supposed he owed Race a real answer, so he gave it a moment of thought before answering. “I’m nice because I want to be, I like you, you deserve it, and I want you to feel good.”

Race snorted, but he was smiling, and maybe blushing just the tiniest bit. “Gross.”

“Fine,” Spot retorted, leaning back away from Race, “if it’s so gross, I’ll stop.”

“What? No, shut up,” Race whined, grabbing a handful of Spot’s shirt so he couldn’t go far.

Spot grinned. “No, really, if you think I’m  _ gross— _ ”

“Nooooo!” Race whined louder, dragging Spot back and pulling himself closer until he ended up clambering halfway into his lap.

Spot laughed. “You know, for someone who never shuts up, you’re pretty damn quiet with your feelings.”

“Whaddayou mean?”

“What do you really think of me, Race?” Spot was genuinely curious. “Not sarcastically, no cop outs.”

Race slid mostly out of Spot’s lap, back onto the couch next to him, but kicked his legs up over his. “I think you’re hot.”

Spot scoffed. “That’s it? I’m hot?”

“No, shut up, I’m not done yet.” Race huffed. “I also think you’re a lot nicer than you’re willing to admit, n’ you’re smart, too.”

“Mmhm,” Spot hummed, reaching out to tangle his fingers in Race’s hair. “What else?” He pressed his lips against Race’s shoulder, right at the base of his neck. “Doesn’t have to be good things.”

Race grinned. “You’re a complete dick. In a good way though, most of the time.”

Spot slid one of his arms around Race’s back. “In a good way?”

Race nodded. “Like if a cactus had free will.”

Spot laughed some more, peppering light kisses along Race’s jaw. “What the hell does that mean?”

Race shifted around to climb properly back into Spot’s lap. “Well, you’re super prickly by default, but sometimes you’re just all mush.”

“Interesting.” Spot swiveled and tipped them over so Race was flat on his back on the couch.

Race exclaimed in mild surprise, catching ahold of Spot’s shoulders for stability in the sudden change of axis. Spot smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Messing with Race was fun.

“Whatsamatter, Racey? Don’tcha trust me?”

Race scoffed. “Of course I do,  _ Spotty _ .”

Spot snickered and leaned down to mouth at Race’s neck. He was starting to reconsider taking the damn boy to bed.

Race wiggled a little bit under him and brought his hands up from his shoulders, around and into his hair, playing absently as he began to talk again. “I think you’re really sweet, when you put your mind to it. N’ you’re all protective n’ shit.”

“Protective, huh?” Spot made his way down to Race’s collarbone. “I seem to recall beating the shit outta you, a couple times.”

“Yeah, but God help anyone else who’d try to.”

“Damn right,” Spot grumbled, then he propped himself up over Race so he could see him. “I’m never gonna do that again, okay? I’m sorry I did it at all.”

Race chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, I deserved it.”

Spot shook his head. “No.” He didn’t like that at all. “You deserve better, and I am never going to hit you again.” He smirked. “‘Nless you ask.”

Race smiled that new, small smile again, wrapping his arms lightly around Spot’s neck. “See? Protective n’ shit.”

“I’ve told you before; I take care a’ what’s mine.”

Race took a breath like he was going to say something, but then closed his mouth again before any words came out, instead pulling Spot closer into a gentle kiss. Spot let him take the lead for a minute, and Race’s mouth worked gently against his. Then he pulled back just a bit, lips ghosting over Spot’s as he spoke. “I think I like you.”

“Well, I’d hope so,” Spot shot back.

Race rolled his eyes. “Your turn, smartass. What do you think of me?”

Sitting back on his knees, Spot rested his fingers against Race’s jaw and brushed over his lips with his thumb. “I think you’re the most brilliant idiot I’ve ever met.”

Race laughed lightly, sitting up most of the way as well, propping himself up with his hands braced on the couch behind him. “What else?”

Spot brushed his fingers back into Race’s hair. “A stunner, but you knew that.”

“Yeah, you’ve already said.”

“You’re fuckin’ smart,” Spot continued, “and you’re batshit crazy, and you’re  _ funny _ .” Spot shook his head. He could do nice, he could even do sweet, but he wasn’t very good at sentimental. “You’ve got a big heart, Tony.”

“I’ve got a big  _ dick! _ ”

Ah, yes. There was his idiot. Spot playfully shoved him back down onto the couch, and Race laughed. Spot liked this. Just being with Race. This was easy. This was  _ happy _ .

“You wanna put up the rest of those decorations, now?” he asked, smiling down at this beautiful, ridiculous boy.

“Yeah, if you can keep your hands offa me,” Race teased.

Spot carefully climbed off Race and stood up, offering him a hand, and he took it like it was the most natural thing in the world, standing as well, and not letting go.

Spot grinned. “Baby?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve still got plastic leaves in your pants.”


	48. Phone Calls Should Be Outlawed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you mix Capri-Suns and vodka.

After church on Sunday, Race decided it was the perfect time to do a very bad job of playing Assassin’s Creed III. Normally, playing Assassin’s Creed III, in the online, multiplayer mode, one wanted to be sneaky and behave like one of the computer generated characters until they were in just the right spot to lunge and kill your target before blending back into the crowd. When Race played, he went for speed rather than discretion. Of course, he very rarely did well, but he pissed off a lot of other players, and if that wasn’t the entire point, well then what was?

Just as he was loading up his fourth instance, after coming dead last for the past three in a row, his phone rang. “Heeeeello?” he answered, but didn’t quite finish the word before he was verbally trampled by Jack.

“Hey, what are you doing tonight?

Race thought for a second. “Uh, nothing, why?”

“‘Cause Ma’s out of town and Crutchie’s staying with a friend,” Jack answered conspiratorially.

“Oh no.” Race grinned. “Whatever are you going to do with that big, empty, rich bitch house all to yourself?”

“We’re gonna find out what happens when you mix Capri-Suns and vodka.”

* * *

Albert DaSilva drunk, singing along to an old Hannah Montana song at the top of his lungs, is what you get when you mix Capri-Suns and vodka.

Race was hanging upside down off the front of the couch, halfway onto the floor, waving his lighter in front of him (down from his perspective, but up in the normal world, so he didn’t catch the carpet on fire) like at a concert. Albert was hideously off key and a bit nasally, and Jack was trying—keyword ‘trying’—to harmonize with him, but Race was loving it. He kept swaying and quietly singing along until he properly fell off the couch and very nearly set his sweat pants on fire. Albert and Jack laughed at him.

“Shut up!” Race pouted, batting at his totally not on fire ankle.

“Good luck explaining scorch marks to your parents,” Albert snickered.

“Nah, I’ll just steal some of Jack’s pants,” Race replied.

“Good luck explaining why you’re wearing Jack’s pants to your parents.”

Race scoffed. “Please, they’ll be happier with his rather than Spot’s.”

“How’s that going, by the way?” Jack asked. He sounded genuinely interested, while Albert made a face that suggested he was not at all interested in how things were going with Spot.

Race let out a blustery sigh. “Good and bad.” He flicked his lighter a few times absently. “He’s great, I _ really _ like him.” He looked pointedly at Albert, who rolled his eyes and looked away. “Dad’s real mad about it though, and Mom isn’t too keen, either.”

“Maybe because he’s a dick,” Albert suggested unhelpfully.

Race snatched the TV remote off the coffee table to chuck it at Albert. “That doesn’t mean he’s a bad person!”

“_ You’re _ a dick,” Jack pointed out with a shrug, and Race pointed at him emphatically.

Albert sneered and grumbled nonsense to himself, apparently giving up his cause for the time being.

“You can’t deny it,” Race said, and Jack snickered.

“You have a type.”

Race scoffed, rolling his eyes towards Jack. “Who _ doesn’t _ like a good dick?” Albert began to object, and Race waved his words away, continuing, “No, I mean, like, personality. I know not everyone likes dick—you’re wrong, but to each his own.”

“As long as the dick isn’t hitting you, anymore.” Jack smirked. “Unless you ask, of course.”

“Ey, that’s exactly what he said!” Race huffed. “An’ it’s like I keep sayin’, I started it.”

Jack was suddenly very interested. “Is there a reason for that? Are you a masochist, Race? Have you been hiding this?”

“Oh my god, it makes sense,” Albert said, eyes widening.

Race counted off on his fingers. “First, I ain’t hiding shit, and even if I was, you’d know. Two, I started it cause I’m a reactive piece of shit.”

“No, think about it!” Jack protested. “Spot shows up, you start shit, he beats the crap out of you, and now you’re into him. You’re totally a masochist!”

“Did I not just say I’m not hiding it?”

“So you agree, you’re a masochist?” Albert asked.

Race threw his hands up. “I agree you’re a big stupid head.”

Albert stuck his tongue out at him before turning to Jack. “So, we’ve gotten a report from Persephone over here. How’re things goin’ with the boy next door?”

“What? Why am I Persephone?”

Jack ignored Race, lighting up with a wistful sort of smile as Albert didn’t quite mention David Jacobs. “I’ve figured out that if I wait an extra three minutes before walking back from the bus stop after school, I can usually run into him at their mailbox.”

“And?” Albert prompted him to continue.

“We’ve talked a little—just nothing talk, but still.” Jack got that dumb, not quite flustered look on his face that people usually do when talking about their crush. “He smiled at me yesterday, before I even said ‘hey’ or anything. I’m pretty sure my soul came.”

Race burst into laughter, and Albert cringed hard. “Your soul came?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, y’know that warm, bubbly sort of feeling in your stomach—?”

“You mean _ butterflies? _” Race butted in, still laughing.

“What? No, more than that!” Jack protested.

“Oh, I’m _ sorry _, are you just too horny to get butterflies, like a normal guy?”

Jack scoffed. “_ Please _. That’s you, if anyone.”

Race squawked indignantly. “Don’t you be thinking that’s an insult, I am a _ renowned _ horny bastard, and damn proud of it!”

Albert proceeded to turn up the music to drown them out, and so Race spoke louder. “I would say it’s a long and noble lineage, but actually I have no idea, so it’s all on my own merit.”

Jack scoffed. “I wouldn’t call it ‘merit’.”

“It’s a skill!” Race argued.

“It’s not a skill.” Albert butted in.

“It’s a skill!” Race insisted, getting a little bit squeaky as his voice pitched up in indignance. “I have worked _ long _ and hard”—he dropped a wink for added emphasis after each word—“to be as talented as I am. Ask Spot. Hell, ask Jack! Ask _ anyone! _” He lifted his chin proudly. “I’m the best there ever was! You bet your ass I’m smart enough to make the dean’s list at any Ivy League in the world, but even if I wasn’t, I’d still top every class I’m in—I don’t usually top, but whatever—for sheer fuckability alone!” He dropped his voice into a pleading, breathy sort of tone. “Professor, I’d love to set up some private tutoring, I’d do anything to finish your class with an ‘A’, even if I have to take a few ‘D’s first...”

Jack was on the floor, helpless with laughter at this point, and Albert clapped his hands over his ears with a loud groan, but this only prompted Race to brag louder. 

“I am The Whore of Babylon reborn, brought back as the twinkiest, blond bitch you’ve ever seen. Call me William Henry motherfucking Hoover, I suck better than your Dyson Multi-Floor ever could!”

There was a knock on the door, and Jack peeled himself off the floor to answer it.

“Is that the Chinese food?” Albert asked, following close behind him. “I want the Chinese food.”

Jack snickered. “You should be ashamed Race. You’ve probably traumatized the poor deliv—” He stooped abruptly as he opened the door, coming face to face with the boy next door.

The boy next door did not look happy.

“Would you keep it down?” David snapped. “It’s a school night. I’ve got a ten year old brother for God’s sake.”

Race pressed his lips together tightly in an effort not to burst into giggles at the aghast look on Jack’s face, but he just ended up making a noise like a leaky balloon as he slowly collapsed against Albert, sinking to the floor and dragging him down with him. 

“Oh shit— I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to—” Jack stumbled over an apology, flushing a little.

David’s gaze traveled briefly to the boys on the floor, then back up to Jack. “Charlie’s not here, is he?”

Jack shook his head. “Uh, no, he’s at a friend’s house.”

“Sleepoverrrrr!” Race crowed from his pile of giggles on the floor.

David huffed, pulling his winter coat tighter around his chest. “Just—...keep it down, alright?”

Jack opened his mouth to answer, but Race spoke over him, immediately back on his feet. “No no waaait, why don’t you come in? The more the merrier!”

Albert caught on quickly. “Yeah! We got Chinese food on the way!”

“We got snacks, we got drinks?” Race continued, nodding eagerly.

David shook his head. “I should really get—”

“Aw c’mon, the party is just getting started!” Albert elbowed Race and he grunted, quickly correcting himself. “I mean the chill hangout is just getting started! Wouldn’t be very neighborly of us to send you off so soon, plus, Jack was just saying how he wanted to get to know you better.”

Jack looked at him sharply, and Race just grinned.

David looked at Jack, and it was probably from the cold, but his cheeks were definitely redder than they had been a second before.

Jack stammered. “Yeah, I uh—”

“So come in! Come in,” Race enthused.

Slowly, as if he were navigating a minefield instead of a high class suburban mansion, David stepped inside, frowning at Jack the whole time. Jack looked like he wanted to implode, and Race was _ delighted _.

“Sorry—” Jack started, but Race interrupted again.

“—that we didn’t invite you from the start!”

David cringed a little. “That’s okay. Really.”

“Well you’re here now, so all good!” Race continued to beckon David inside.

David cast another weary look at Jack as he made his way further into the house.

Jack was blushing uselessly, clearly caught between his white knight instincts and his fuckboy habits. “Sorry about them.” He gestured towards Race and Albert, who were both just beaming.

“Who are they?” David asked pointedly.

“Oh, that’s Race, and Albert. They’re my friends from school,” Jack said.

Albert scoffed. “We’re your best fucking friends from _ life _, bitch.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “That too.”

David pressed his lips together into something that didn’t at all resemble a smile and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

Race got the distinct impression that it was not nice to meet them at all, but he wasn’t particularly bothered. This wasn’t about him liking them, this was about him liking _ Jack. _Maybe, if he and Albert really laid it on thick, they could make Jack look sane by comparison.

“Sorry, they’re not usually—” Jack attempted, but once again was cut off by Race.

“Shut up, yes we are, it’s just louder cause drinking.” He turned his attention to David. “Do you drink, Dave?”

“No,” David answered shortly.

Albert shrugged. “More for us.”

David looked to Jack and again, and Jack offered him a cringy smile, and now it was definitely not the cold making David’s cheeks turn red. A slow grin spread across Race’s face as he looked back and forth between the two of them.

“So uh...” Jack began, clearly having no destination in sight.

“Video games?” Albert suggested.

“Okay, but consider.” Race held his hands up in front of him, palms out, pausing for effect, before jazz hands-ing downwards as he continued. “Charades.”

* * *

Race mostly managed to hold in his laughter as Jack blundered around the living room, wiggling his arms like a weirdo, doing nothing that at all related to his prompt. Race had given it to him. It was—

“The Pacific Ocean,” David guessed.

Race’s jaw dropped in a short burst of shocked laughter. “_ What? _”

Jack looked rather surprised, too. “Yeah, you got it.”

“How did you get that!?” Race continued to sputter indignantly.

“He was doing the—” David imitated Jack’s arm motions, “like water, and walking all around the room. The Pacific is the largest ocean.”

Race once again made balloon noises in a failed attempt to silence his laughter. “Oh, of course, so obvious.”

David turned his head away in a modest attempt to hide a self-satisfied smile.

“Alright,” Race said, waving vaguely to request a prompt. “I guess it’s my turn to humiliate me and Al.”

Jack quickly scribbled something on a piece of notebook paper, folding it up and passing it over to Race. “_ curtain call _”

Race rolled his eyes. “He’ll never get that.”

Jack shushed him, waving off the complaint. Race rolled his eyes again before stepping into the open space of the living room, and he turned to face sideways from the others. He took a bow and waved at nothing before quickly stepping forward and turning around to face where he had stood a moment ago, then began to clap.

“Uhhh, performance?” Albert guessed.

Race shook his head, then stepped across to bow again, and then back to clapping, a bit more enthusiastically this time, with mimed cheering.

Albert shook his head. “Applause? Theatre?”

Race shook his head again and turned to face towards the couch. He posed as if he’d just finished some big musical number, with the big smile and heavy breathing, then stood up to neutral, holding his hands out to at least attempt to mime a curtain being lowered. Then, he quickly sat down beside Albert, and just as quickly stood up to applaud the non-existent stage again.

Albert exclaimed in wordless frustration. “It’s the fucking end of a play! I don’t know the fucking theatre word for it, _ Jack! _”

Race began to clap aggressively, moving closer and closer to him as Albert shouted every word for ‘end’ and ‘clap’ and ‘cheer’ he could think of.

“Ooh,” Jack hissed as the timer on his phone went off, “time’s up.”

“‘Curtain call’, you numb nut!” Race wailed at Albert as Jack laughed. Even David let out a little chuckle.

Albert sputtered angrily. “I told you I don’t know theatre words!”

Race threw his hands up. “Fucking useless.”

“Alright, alright, it’s David’s turn.” Albert grabbed a piece of paper from the coffee table and scribbled something on it before hanging it over to David, who frowned at it for a moment before stepping into the center of the room. Albert counted down to starting the timer. “Five, four, three, two, go!”

David help up three fingers.

“Three.”

Race failed to catch a brief bark of laughter, and Albert looked at him flatly.

“Yes, Jack. It’s ‘three’.”

David rolled his eyes, held up three fingers again, then five, leveling a weighted look at Jack.

“Okay, okay.” Jack waved dismissively at Albert. “Three words? Thirty-five— No, three words?”

David nodded.

“Three words, five...”

David did that thing that at least _ my _ mom did when explaining syllables—lightly thumping his fist against his open hand in a rhythm as he mouthed the broken down word.

“Oh! Three words, five syllables!”

He nodded again, grinning, then bit his lip thoughtfully. It took him a moment, but soon he started doing a bunch of hand motions. For a second, Jack just stared, barely blushing, with his mouth hanging the tiniest bit open, and his eyes had that special, soft look to them. He blinked sharply, bringing his attention back to the game, and Race just beamed. Jack was hopeless.

Jack watched David’s hands intently for a minute. “Ma-king break-fast? No, that’s only four, uhhh...”

David made a few more signs, including holding up four fingers and using his hand as a clock and pointing where the six would be.

“Dinner?” Jack made a face. “What? No. _ Oh! _ Breakfast for dinner?”

David broke into a huge grin, and Albert’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, come on! How!?”

“They’re linked,” Race said in awe, looking back and forth between Jack and David. “Fuckin’ psychic bond or something like that.”

Jack laughed. “You’re just mad that you suck.”

“Damn right I suck! Didn’t we just go over this!?” Race practically shouted.

“Ohmygodno, no more, please!” Jack protested, attempting to stifle Race with a throw pillow, but as anyone who had ever been within fifty feet of the boy knew, Anthony ‘Betcha I Can Scream Longer Than You Can’ Higgins was not one easily silenced.

“_ That’s not what you said when I had your d— _”

And Jack flat out sat on him, hoping to crush his words into nothingness.

“Oh.” David paused. He probably blinked a couple times. Race couldn’t see. “Are you two—”

“No.” Jack answered quickly and certainly as Race flailed and whined, awkwardly folded up under Jack’s legs.

“Oh,” David said again.

Race managed to squirm out from under Jack, falling off the couch in doing so. “Jesus Christ, did you eat a Buick? Why are you so heavy?”

“That’s just the weight of his monster dong,” Albert deadpanned.

Race burst into laughter as Jack groaned, blushing as he sank his face into his hands.

“Okay, okay.” Albert stood up. “I think it’s my turn?”

“Your prompt, Dave,” Race said demurely from his spot, crumpled at the base of the couch.

It was fun, watching Jack have a crush. He was utterly hopeless, and it was adorable. It was even _ more _ fun watching the object of his affection _ also _ having a crush, and somehow neither of them realizing the other was into them. As the night wore on, David slowly relaxed, easing a bit more into the group. He was definitely paying a lot more attention to Jack than to Race or Albert, but by about two a.m., he was even laughing with the others at Albert being a general jackass.

Eventually, they were all too tired to continue playing games—even the awful sleepover classics like truth or dare and such—except Race, who was still bouncy and slap-happy. Race was one of those kids that always proposed pulling an all nighter, and then got really disappointed when everyone else chickened out and fell asleep, and tonight was no different. About a quarter of the way into Mad Max: Fury Road—David thought it was a bit dumb, considering it was literally just a post-apocalyptic flavored, two-hour car chase with some fighting sprinkled in, but that’s exactly why it’s the best!—the others began to slowly fade. Jack was the first to go. Over the course of about five minutes, he drifted slowly off and ended up falling asleep against David’s shoulder. David was barely awake by that point, and before long, his eyes fluttered closed, his cheek smushed into Jack’s hair. Race smacked at Albert, who was also just a few blinks from sleeping, and he pointed emphatically and delightedly at the two on the couch.

Albert smiled sleepily and held up his hand for a high-five. “We’re the best wingmen in the universe.”

Race stopped himself just short of cracking his palm full force against Albert’s, realizing just in time to prevent the resounding clap that would’ve surely woken the others. Instead, he lightly placed his hand against Albert’s and whispered. “Hell yeah!”


	49. Newsies of the Couchibbean

Somewhere, in a distant corner of his consciousness, Spot was getting really tired of the Pirates of the Caribbean menu music. Race had insisted they watch it, then gotten distracted before they even pressed play, and now he was sprawled across the couch with his head in Spot’s lap, prattling on about everything and nothing.

“Demons are usually depicted as red, which would indicate that they’re heavily seasoned with paprika and chili powder, like a chorizo.”

Spot had only zoned out for, like, a minute, and he had  _ no _ idea how the hell Race got so from the inaccuracies of most ‘historical’ movies to spicy demons.

“Or maybe they’re just red.”

“Well, if it’s  _ natural _ , then that points to  _ poison _ .”

“Yeah. They’re demons, Race.”

“I’m not saying they  _ couldn’t _ be, I’m saying it isn’t automatic. But if we’re approaching it from the poison angle, then that opens up the implication that frogs are mini demons.”

“What about Albert?”

Race blinked. “Are you calling him a demon, or a frog?”

“A demon,” Spot clarified, “with the hair and all.”

Race let out a brief laugh. “Nah, that’s cause I force fed him an entire bottle of paprika when we were, like, ten.”

“Mm, maybe  _ you’re _ the demon, then,” Spot mused.

The boy in his lap grinned, wiggling a bit. “Y’ just noticing now?”

“Well, Hot Shot thinks you sucked my soul out, so there’s that.”

Race sputtered into laughter. “What?”

“Through my dick, specifically.”

“Wh—” He laughed harder, and Spot grinned. He liked being able to make Race laugh. “Damn, I didn’t know I was  _ that _ good.”

Spot smirked. “Yes, you did.”

Race beamed up at him. “Not my fault I’m the best there ever was.”

After another minute of Race babbling about pretty much nothing, they heard the garage door opening. Race frowned a bit, then shifted to cuddle even closer, even though he was already about halfway into Spot’s lap. He muttered quiet nonsense and sat part of the way up, shifting to tuck himself back against Spot’s side. He grabbed Spot’s arm, and pulled it over his shoulder and across his chest like a seatbelt.

“Whatsamatter, baby?” Spot asked quietly.

“Nothin’,” Race grumbled as the door opened from the garage, and Mrs. Higgins came inside. Spot could feel Race relax a bit, but not a whole lot.

“Oh. Hello, boys,” Mrs. Higgins greeted them.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, Mrs. Higgins.”

“How are you, Sean?” She asked as she hung her coat up on one of the hooks by the door.

“‘M great,” he told her, forcing a smile. “How are you?”

She nodded. “I’m alright.” Her gaze landed on Race, and she offered him a smile. “Your father will be home soon.”

Race huffed quietly. “Guess we’d better hide Sean in the closet then.”

“Oh, come on. I gotta be in the closet at  _ your _ house, too?” Spot joked, trying to add some levity to the uncomfortable situation.

Race looked over his shoulder towards Spot with a slight frown, and hugged his arm tighter across his chest.

Mrs. Higgins sighed quietly. “That’s not what I meant, Tony.” She headed for the kitchen. “Let me know if you boys need anything.”

Race sighed as well. “Thanks, Mom,” he called after her.

Spot kissed Race’s temple. “Are we gonna watch this movie or no?” he asked in a lame a attempt at a distraction.

“Sure,” Race answered, but made no move for the remote.

Now, Spot sighed. “Okay.” He pulled away from Race so he could turn his body towards him, taking his hands instead. “What’s wrong?”

Race glanced towards the kitchen, then back at Spot. “I don’t like that my folks don’t like you.”

“Who gives a shit?” Spot gave a shit, just a little. He cupped Race’s cheek. “I like you, and you like me, right?

Race rolled his eyes a bit. “Well, yeah.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” Spot concluded. He was not about to let anyone come between them, not even Race’s parents.

Race nodded, but Spot could tell from the look on his face that it really bothered him, and Spot wanted to kill anything that bothered Race with his bare hands.

Which meant he was going to have to start getting along with his parents.

Race grabbed the remote off the coffee table and hit the play button to start the movie, and at least two of Spot’s brain cells cheered when the menu music finally stopped. Race turned back to Spot and shoved him into the corner of the couch, then turned his back to him and scooted closer to lean back against his chest, using his legs as arm rests. Spot snickered and rolled his eyes, but dutifully wrapped his arms around Race’s middle and rested his chin on his shoulder.

“So are you a heathen,” Race asked, “or do you think only the first three count?”

“I haven’t even seen the last two.”

“Yeah, don’t bother,” Race scoffed.

Truth be told, Spot hadn’t watched  _ any _ of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies in years, and while he liked them, they weren’t his favorites (he was wrong, but you know, to each their own). He readjusted his position to get more comfortable, shoving Race a little farther down the couch so his head, instead of his back, was resting on Spot’s chest.

“Will Turner was one of my first crushes,” Race said in a thoughtful sort of way.

This little shit from elementary school named Anthony was Spot’s first crush, but he decided not to mention that. “I’m kinda straight for Elizabeth, to be honest.”

“I don’t blame you, she’s a bad ass bitch. I wonder how tall she is...” Race mused.

Before Spot could tell him he was an asshole, the garage door opened again. Spot felt Race tense for half a second, and his eyes narrowed a bit. Then, Mr. Higgins came inside. A brief look of displeasure washed over his face when he saw the boys cuddled together on the couch, but it disappeared quickly, and he offered a diplomatic smile.

“Hi, Bud. Sean.”

Race smiled, but there was the slightest bit of hardness to it—determination, or maybe spite. “Hi, Dad.”

Mr. Higgins glanced at the screen. “Hm, good movie.” Then, he moved into the office.

Race sighed almost imperceptibly and leaned a little heavier against Spot. They watched the movie for a while, and Spot began to wonder if Race was asleep, since he was never quiet for this long.

Very suddenly, Race sat up and turned so he could face Spot. “Does it bother you?”

Spot knit his eyebrows in confusion. “Does what bother me?”

Race dropped his voice a bit as he answered. “My folks. My dad.”

Spot frowned. It did bother him, mostly because it bothered Race, but he didn’t say that. “Spoiler alert,” he chuckled, “my parents wouldn’t like this either.” He gestured between them.

“That’s different, though,” Race grumbled.

“How?”

“Yours don’t like the gay, mine don’t like  _ you _ .” He frowned.

Spot sighed again. He couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault Race was feeling this way. “If I was them, I wouldn’t like me, either,” he said, tucking one of Race’s curls behind his ear.

“Yeah, but they’re wrong.”

Spot smiled, and chuckled lightly. He’d gone and gotten himself a fiery little bastard, and he kind of loved it. Still grumbling under his breath, Race tucked his legs up and pitched over sideways, glancing off of Spot’s shoulder and down into his lap. 

Spot gently combed his fingers through Race’s hair. “Look, you tell me how to fix it, and I will.”

“Well, time travel would work, but I dunno if you’re quite  _ that _ smart.”

Spot let out a bitter chuckle. He certainly wished he could time travel. He’d go back to third grade and tell himself not to be such a little bitch.

Race muttered something that Spot didn’t quite catch, and then he turned his head and bit Spot’s leg.

Spot swatted gently at his head. “You bitch! What was that for?”

Race whined loudly. “No, shut up, I wanted to bite you!”

Spot laughed and shoved him off, and he rolled forward, flopping off the couch pathetically, as if he’d been pushed much harder than he actually had. He was quiet on the floor for about a second before seemingly losing interest in whatever bullshit game he was playing.

“Do you want snacks?”

“I want  _ you _ to have something to do with your mouth besides bite me.”

He sat up quickly, grinning like an idiot. “Wink wonk.” He winked one eye, then the other.

Spot shoved him away with his foot, and he giggled, following the momentum of the shove and rolling up to his feet. He headed for the kitchen. “Want me to grab you anything? We got soda n’ whatever.”

“Sure, whatever you’ve got’s fine.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. Spot could vaguely hear him chattering—was anyone else even in there? Actually, on second thought, it wouldn’t surprise Spot at all if Race was talking to himself. It shouldn’t have been cute...but it was kinda cute. He could hear him rooting around in the fridge, and then the door to the office opened, and Mr. Higgins came out into the living room. Spot’s hopes that he was just passing through were dashed as he came around and sat down in the armchair. Spot pressed his lips together in an awkward semblance of a smile. Was he there to watch the movie? Should Spot...say something?

It was quiet for a moment before Mr. Higgins spoke. “So, Sean, any plans for after school?”

Spot froze like a baby deer in headlights. When Mr. Higgins opened his mouths he’d expected some sort of curse on his family line. “Oh. I’m, uh...going into the military, I think,” he replied, sitting up straighter in preparation for this conversation.

Mr. Higgins looked surprised. “Oh really?”

“Yeah.” Spot fidgeted with his fingers in his lap. “I could go to college, but I don’t think it’s my thing.”

Mr. Higgins nodded, looking less surprised, and Spot didn’t like that. True, he wasn’t super into school, but he was smart. He was absolutely smart enough to go to a good college, if he wanted. He didn’t want. “Some people aren’t cut out for it.” The words weren’t necessarily insulting, but the tone was getting pretty close.

“Some people aren’t cut out for service, either,” Spot shot back.

Mr. Higgins smiled at him tightly. “I suppose that’s true.”

_ Be nice _ , Spot reminded himself.  _ He’s Race’s dad. Race wants him to like you _ .

“So you’ll be enlisting right after you graduate, then?”

Spot nodded. “That’s the plan.”

Mr. Higgins looked at him flatly. “So this is just a fling?”

“Excuse me?” Spot frowned. Who the fuck did he think—?

Race’s dad. That’s who the fuck he thought he was. Spot took a deep breath, though it did little to release the rage caused by the accusation.

“I expect he won’t mind,” Mr. Higgins continued, sounding more like he was trivializing Spot’s presence than Race’s sense of commitment. “He’s had flings before.”

“It’s not a fling,” Spot bit out. Anyone else would have had their teeth knocked out by this point.

Mr. Higgins briefly raised an eyebrow. “If you say so.” He stood up, turning to head back to the office, but stopped for a moment behind the couch. “I just want Tony to be happy, and safe.”

Spot didn’t like how solidly he hit that last word. “I do, too.” He shouldn’t have continued, but he did anyway. “Maybe I realized that when I dragged him off the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge—or was it when he almost bled out right in front of me?”

Mr. Higgins pressed his lips together tightly, and Spot could see a muscle tic in his jaw. “Happenstance doesn’t make you a hero, Sean.”

“Nah, it just makes Anthony not dead.”

Mr. Higgins grit his teeth. “I understand what you did for my son, Sean. Don’t think I’m not grateful for you behaving like a decent human being. I also understand that you hurt him. Repeatedly. And if you ask me, that speaks more to your character.”

Spot shook his head. “You don’t know me. You may think you do, but you know  _ nothing _ about me.”

“Heyyy, guys?”

Mr. Higgins stopped short of his next sentence, turning to look towards the doorway to the kitchen where Race had just appeared, holding a bag of pretzels and a sandwich.

“Can we maybe save the rumble for after the movie?”

Spot took another deep breath, seething, and turned back towards the TV. Mr. Higgins exhaled slowly and stepped around the couch towards Race, but Race passed without giving him a chance to say anything. Mr. Higgins sighed again as Race sat back down on the couch.

“Joel, could you come here?” Mrs. Higgins called from somewhere else in the house. Spot didn’t really pay enough attention to source the sound.

Mr. Higgins glanced between the boys, then headed down the hallway.

Spot, feeling not unlike a puppy who just got caught with an expensive shoe in his mouth, looked sideways at Race, but Race was just staring at the TV, where Pirates of The Caribbean played on, forgotten.

Spot winced. “Tony, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Race answered, a little coldly.

Spot scoffed. Don’t worry about it? Really? Mr. Higgins had just told him he was a shit person, which was probably true, but he didn’t want to hear it, especially not from someone so important to Race.

Race let out a quiet breath and tilted the bag of pretzels towards Spot, offering to share. Spot just shook his head, and Race shrugged. “Your loss.”

Spot bit his tongue and looked away. He felt bad. He shouldn’t have argued with Mr. Higgins, even if Mr. Higgins totally started and deserved it. It just pissed him off. He was good to Race, or at least he tried to be, but nothing he did was ever going to be enough, was it? “Yes,” he said.

Race looked over at him, offering the pretzel bag again.

“Yes, it bothers me,” Spot clarified.

Race blinked. “Oh. My dad?”

“Yeah, blondie. Your dad.”

Race’s shoulders drooped. “I wish they’d just give you a chance, y’know? I keep telling ‘em it’s my fault, but they won’t listen. Especially Dad.”

“It’s not your fault,” Spot grumbled.

“Yes, it is!” Race protested.

“It’s  _ not _ .”

“It  _ is! _ I’m the one that kicked shit up, you were just reacting to me being an asshole!”

“Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

Race huffed. “Yeah, but I’m still right.”

Spot gave up. He didn’t have the energy to argue with Race about who did or didn’t instigate their rivalry. It had happened, and there was no changing it, but Race still looked rather upset.

“If I wasn’t such a self absorbed shit head,” he went on, “I wouldn’t’ve jumped down your throat and assumed you somehow knew shit I’d literally never told anyone who could’ve possibly told you.”

“Tony, look at me.” Spot turned his body towards Race.

With another quiet exhale, Race mirrored him, facing him expectantly.

“I forgive you,” Spot said. “Okay?”

Race smiled just a bit. “I haven’t even said ‘I’m sorry’ yet.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, shut up, cause I am. Sorry, I mean.”

Spot smiled back wanly. “Me, too.”

“And I forgive you, too.” Race chuckled quietly. “Though I sorta figured that was a given, what with you saving my life a handful a’ times.”

“Well.” Spot’s smile faltered. “Happenstance doesn’t make me a hero.”

Race frowned. “What?” Evidently he hadn’t heard the entire conversation with Mr. Higgins. That was probably a good thing.

“Nothing,” Spot dismissed, putting an arm around Race’s shoulders.

Race looked like he was going to push, but then got distracted by one of the many very good sword fights of Pirates of The Caribbean. Spot smiled again, pulling him closer to kiss him on the side of the head.

Race nestled against him. “I should get a sword.”


	50. Weeds and Bepis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Elmer get a teensy bit high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 50th chapter of this nonsense.
> 
> Elmer says some potentially offensive stuff in this chapter, but then again, if you’ve made it this far, you know the drill. :P

Race pulled into the church parking lot at eight-thirty on Wednesday, wondering absently what specifics of Godly dating they’d be getting into this week. He headed inside, looking around for Elmer, as usual. He frowned. Youth group used to be exciting. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it anymore, it’s just that the rest of his life had turned into such a spectacular shit show, organized chaos in the church basement paled in comparison. He sighed. He missed normal, but normal didn’t really feel normal anymore. Everything felt slow and boring and more complicated than it should be.

“Who took a shit in your Lucky Charms? Damn.” Elmer, out of nowhere, punched Race in the arm.

Race startled mildly, and swatted back at him. “Everyone knows Froot Loops are better.”

“But marshmallows!” Elmer protested.

He dropped his arm over Elmer’s shoulders. “My friend, I’m about to change your whole damn life. Put mini marshmallows—_ real _ mini marshmallows— _ in _ your Froot Loops.”

Elmer’s eyes widened. “Senpai,” he whispered.

Race laughed, shoving him off. “Gross.”

“You wanna know what’s even grosser?” Elmer asked, throwing his arm over Race’s shoulders this time. “We’re talking about abstinence, today.”

Race laughed. “Oh, yikes. I dunno if I should be allowed to participate.”

“Jesus hung out with whores. Not sure why we couldn’t.” Elmer winked, grinning viciously.

Race placed a hand on his chest in mock insult. “Excuse you, I am no common whore. I have been made an honest woman.”

“Have you now?”

“I’m still a slut—hang on, can you even _ be _ a slut if you’re only sleeping with one person?”

Elmer snorted. “You? Anthony ‘Racetrack’ Higgins? Sleeping with _ one _ person?”

Race grinned. “The one, the only, Spot— I mean Sean, wait fuck what’s his middle name?—Conlon.”

“What!?” Elmer shouted at full volume, causing several heads to turn and look at them quizzically. Race flailed, grabbing at his face to shut him up, but Elmer deflected his attack. “You. Are. _ Exclusive _. With—”

“Yes, oh my god, shut up, what’s the big deal?”

“You know what?” Elmer grabbed Race’s wrist and dragged him towards the door. “Fuck abstinence. I want to hear about this.”

Race laughed. “You can’t fuck abstinence, that defeats the purpose.”

“Come on, loser,” Elmer hissed, only now having the decency to lower his voice. “I got the weeds.”

“_ Now _ you tell me.”

* * *

There are many great mysteries in this world. Is there a God? Where do we go after we die? What is the meaning of life? Where does Elmer Kasprzak get all this fucking weed?

“Are you sure you don’t have a secret weed factory in your basement?” Race asked, kicking his legs absently over the edge of the loft.

Although rather mundane in functionality, the tech booth had a pretty cool set up, lofted above the big supply closet, with a steep set of stairs that might as well have been a ship’s ladder. No one used the tech booth on youth group nights—nothing was going on in the sanctuary, so there was no need for slides or sound—which made it the perfect hideout.

“You forget that I go to school in the ghetto.” Race wouldn’t consider the other side of town ‘the ghetto’. “I got a plug.”

He snorted, amused. “Yeah okay,”

Elmer took a hit and held his breath, leaning his forehead against the railing. “So,” he said after a moment, letting all his breath out in a cloud of smoke, “you an’ Dot or whatever the fuck ‘is name is.”

Race laughed. “Spot, but yes.”

“Dude, I don’t care. What’s ‘at about? Thought you hated everything about ‘im ‘cept ‘is dick.”

“Well, turns out I’m dumb,” Race answered, shrugging.

“Uh oh,” Elmer giggled. “Here we go again.”

Race pouted. “What’s _ that _ supposed to mean?”

Elmer blew a puff of smoke right into Race’s face. “You’re gonna fall in love, and your heart’s gonna get broken, and you’re gonna rebound fuck half the state a’ New York, then fall in love again.”

Race pouted even more. “Well, I already got half, I figure I should round out the whole thing, right?”

Elmer scrunched his face up. “He’s already broken your heart? Damn, Race.”

“No,” Race kicked at Elmer’s ankle, “he’s wonderful.”

“Sure, he is.”

“No, he is!” Race protested. “I mean, he’s an asshole, but like, all that shit at the start was my fault.”

“Well yeah, you’re stupid.” Elmer smirked, raising the joint back to his lips.

Race snatched it out of his hand to take a hit himself. “Not my fault I’m a self absorbed bastard.”

“That’s definitely your fault.”

“It is not!” he whined. “I’m amazing!”

Elmer flopped back onto the floor and looked up at the ceiling, kicking his feet back and forth. “My money’s on the end of January.”

Race frowned. He didn’t really like the idea of an expiration date being put on him and Spot. Granted he didn’t have the greatest record when it came to long term relationships, but still.

“Whenya gonna bring one to church, huh?” Elmer liked to give Race shit about never bringing his boyfriends to church.

Race rolled his eyes. “Yeah okay, grandma.”

“You promised you were gonna bring the last one,” Elmer whined. “The one that lasted until the week before Valentine’s Day. Shit, what was his name?”

“Ben, yeah,” Race huffed. “He split the second anything even inched towards ‘real’.”

Elmer tilted his head up. “Do you still have that list on your phone of all your former lovers in order of cock size?”

Race scoffed. “Elmer, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I do.”

“I always thought you should make another list in order of how good they were at sex and compare them, for science.” He laid his head back down, then he frowned. “‘N leave me the fuck offa that one. I was so high.”

Race waved at him dismissively. “I’ll put in, like, extenuating circumstances. Lots of drunk hookups still had some pretty good fucking.”

“Am I still fourth on the dick list?”

“Fifth, sorry.” Race cringed sympathetically.

Elmer squawked indignantly. “You mean your little midget boyfriend has a bigger dick than me?”

“Hoo boy, does he ever. It’s insane.”

“Is your ass okay? Race, I’m worried about your ass.”

Race laughed. “My ass is _ fantastic _, thank you very much.”

“I’m not high enough for this,” Elmer grumbled, snatching the joint from Race.

“Elmer, I think I’m in love with him.”

“Because of his magnum dong?”

“No!” Race swatted at him, laughing. “Well, yes, but not _ just _ that.”

Elmer sat up, taking another hit before handing the joint back to Race. “He love you?”

Race scoffed. “Fuck if I know, man.”

“Hm,” Elmer hummed, staring blankly out over the sanctuary. It was quiet for a minute, and Race half expected that to be the end of the conversation. Then, Elmer asked, “How d’ya know you love him?”

Race took another hit, holding it for a moment, more as an excuse to think, than anything, before answering. “I dunno...he feels good. Bein’ around him, I mean.”

“Nah, s’more ‘an that,” Elmer argued. “Bein’ around you feels good. I’m not in love with you.”

“Mm, you might think you aren’t,” Race teased, reaching over to boop Elmer’s nose, but missing entirely and jabbing him in the cheek. Elmer turned his head and very lazily bit Race’s finger, and Race neither reacted, nor pulled away, leaving his finger in Elmer’s mouth as he took another hit. “I dunno,” he continued after a blustery exhale. “He’s nice. He’s good to me.” Race shrugged. “Cares n’ whatever. Like, properly cares.”

Elmer nodded, running his tongue gently over the tip of Race’s finger.

“Hot,” Race said flatly, still not retreating.

Elmer grabbed Race’s wrist so he couldn’t pull his hand away when he spoke. “Don’t tell your boyfriend.”

Race laughed again. “I would never. He’d break your knees.”

“Knees. Who needs ‘em?” Elmer closed his mouth over Race’s finger again.

Race shrugged, wiggling his finger around, trying to poke Elmer in the roof of his mouth. “I don’t know anyone who really uses them, anyway.” He finally pulled his hand back, freeing his finger from Elmer’s teeth.

Elmer snickered and grinned, flopping back onto the floor. “I know how to tell if he loves you.”

“Put my finger in _ his _ mouth?”

“No. Bring him to Buttons’ next godly dating lesson. If he doesn’t run screaming, he loves you.”

Race laughed some more. “I’m not sure anyone would love me that much.”

It was a joke, of course, but the thought of bringing Spot to youth group really did make him nervous...well, no, the thought of testing Spot’s love for him (or lack thereof) made him nervous. Did Spot love him? Probably not. After all, they had only been official for one week. The thought made Race’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

“You okay, dude?” Elmer asked, frowning up at him.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” Race answered quickly.

“Good, ‘cause we gotta go.” Elmer sat up again and grabbed ahold of the railing to pull himself all the way to his feet. “Group’ll be over any minute, and if Buttons sees our cars, he’ll know we’re still here somewhere and come looking.”

Race nodded, clambering to his feet as well. “Right, right.”

They headed down the ladder-stairs and out into the parking lot, parting ways with a sloppy hug that was half punching. Race climbed into his car and just stared at the steering wheel for a second. Although he wasn’t _ that _ high, he certainly wasn’t about to drive anywhere, and even if he was, he still smelled far too much like weed to go right home. After a few minutes of rather slow, circuitous thought, he pulled his phone out and called Spot.

The phone rang just enough times for him to wonder if Spot was going to answer before he heard a _ click _ and Spot’s voice saying, “Hey, Race.”

“Hey,” Race greeted, smiling at Spot’s voice.

“What’s up?”

“Can you come get me? Elmer an’ me skipped out on youth group and I don’t wanna sit in the parking lot for thirty years.”

There was a brief pause, during which Race could practically hear Spot frowning. “That doesn’t make any sense, Race.”

“Oh. I’m high.”

Another pause, and then Spot sighed heavily. Race could hear the jangling of keys in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m at church,” he answered uselessly.

“Which one?”

“Uhh, hang on I’ll send you the address.” Race fiddled with his phone for a second to share his location. “That’s sorta like an address...”

“Okay, I’ll be there in, like, ten minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

Race huffed. “Yeh, that’s sorta the point.”

Spot ended the call without a goodbye.

Race pouted heavily at his phone, less than satisfied, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. He glanced at the clock. If Buttons used the entire time he was given for youth group, Spot might just make it in time to get Race out unnoticed. Of course, Race’s car would still be there, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that, either. He turned on the radio quietly while he waited. Race wasn’t a patient person at the best of times, and those ten minutes might as well have been forever.

The first couple kids to leave youth groups were making their way to their cars when Spot finally showed up, pulling his car into the parking space just to the left of Race’s. Race got out of his car, smiling. It had been long enough that he didn’t feel like his head was a balloon on a string anymore, but he still wouldn’t feel comfortable driving for a bit. He went to open the passenger side of Spot’s car, but the handle just bounced uselessly—locked. Race pulled the most heartbroken pout onto his face, looking at Spot in abject betrayal, but Spot was already looking down at the button to unlock the doors.

As soon as the door opened and Race was inside, he asked. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Spot sputtered, scrunching up his nose and blinking like he’d just been bopped in the face. “What?”

“The door.” Race gestured to the offending door. “It was locked. Is this a hint? Are you breaking up with me?”

“No, I’m not breaking up with you, dumbass.” Spot put the car back in gear. “You want Taco Bell?”

Race gasped softly. “Yes.”

“Thought so.”

“You know me so well.”

“I’ve been high before.”

Race scoffed. “I’m not _ that _ high, I just like Taco Bell.”

Spot quirked an eyebrow at Race, looking sideways at him as he backed out of the parking space. “You willingly eat Taco Bell while sober?”

“And you don’t?” Race scoffed again.

Spot scrunched up his face again. “You’re nasty.”

“And you _ like _ it.”

“I like a few things about you, baby. Not sure your affinity for Taco Bell is one of ‘em.”

“Yeah but you didn’t even _ know _ about it till just now, so it _ was _,” Race argued. He was already talking before the words really connected in his head, but that ‘few’ hurt more than he was willing to admit.

Spot narrowed his eyes at the road ahead of him. “What?”

Race opened his mouth to explain his statement, but he was a bit distracted by trying very hard not to dwell on Spot’s choice of words—which of course left him dwelling on Spot’s choice of words—and even if he hadn’t been, it hadn’t really made sense in the first place. “Never mind.”

“Woah, hey.” Spot glanced at Race for just a second, frowning. “Wha’d I do?”

“What? Nothing.” Race answered wuixjey.

(B: I tried to type ‘quickly’, and thought you’d enjoy what a bad job I did, so I left it)

“Tony.”

“What?” he replied, staunchly refusing to admit he had been thrown by something so small and almost undoubtedly inconsequential—but hoo boy he was doubting it. They rolled to a stop at a red light, and Spot looked at him pointedly. Clearly he was not as subtle as he hoped he was, and that probably had nothing to do with him still being a bit high.

“What? Nothing—you didn’t do anything.” Race insisted.

“Then what’s freaking you out, huh?” Spot asked softly, reaching across the center console to brush Race’s arm with the back of his knuckles. Shit, why did he have to be so sweet?

“I‘m not freaking out,” he answered stubbornly.

Spot clearly wanted to argue, but the light turned green, so he turned back to the road. “You’re still a real pain in the ass sometimes, you know that?”

“That’s why you like me,” Race replied, grinning.

“No, it’s not,” Spot retorted, “but I like you anyway.”

“Well thank god for that.”

That drew a chuckle out of Spot as they pulled into the Taco Bell drive through. “What do you want?”

“I want nachos, and one of those gross Doritos tacos, and a quesarito.”

“Anything to drink?”

Race nodded. “Big ol’ bepis.”

Spot snorted. “Pepsi, got it.” He pulled up to the microphone and ordered for Race, along with a regular Pepsi for himself.

Before he could pull away, Race spoke loudly, leaning over him towards the speaker. “I’m sorry, it’s pronounced ‘bepis’, he’s saying it wrong.”

The girl taking their order laughed, and Spot shoved Race back over into his seat.

“You can’t silence the truth, Sean!”

“I can silence you, if you don’t shut your mouth.”

Race’s eyebrows darted briefly upwards. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Spot huffed as they pulled up to the window.

“Don’t sound too sure about that, Spotty,” Race teased.

Spot paid and received their order, then pulled into a remote parking space in the corner of the lot. “You sobering up, yet?”

Race nodded. “Yeah, I wasn’t that high in the first place, just don’t wanna risk it, y’know?”

Spot nodded back. “‘M glad you called me.”

“Thanks for comin’ to get me.”

“‘Course.” Spot smiled. “Can’t let anything happen to my boy.”

A smile spread across Race’s face. He liked it when Spot called him ‘his’.

They hung out in the Taco Bell parking lot for a bit while Race finished his food, exchanging mindless bits of conversation and trading playful insults. It was starting to get late.

Race yawned as he crumpled his wrappers up and put them in the paper bag. “I’m tired.”

“Can you get yourself home, if I take you back to the church?” Spot asked.

Race nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

The drive back to church was quiet, and Race found himself again caught up in a less than ideal train of thought. What he had said to Elmer was true; Spot was good to him. _ Very _ good to him. But Race still worried. Did Spot love him? Of course it was way too early for any reasonable person to even be thinking about love, but when had Race ever been reasonable? He loved Spot—at least he was pretty sure he did—but did that even matter? He’d loved his last boyfriend, too, and they hadn’t even lasted six months. Race bit back a sigh. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Spot, or didn’t want to talk to him about important things. It was more he didn’t trust himself to have a solid grasp on what was actually important.

“You’re thinking about something,” Spot said, never taking his eyes off the road. “I can tell, ‘cause you’re being quiet.”

Ahh, shit.

“Nothin’ important,” Race replied.

Spot pressed his lips together into a straight line, rendering his expression almost startlingly neutral.

Race frowned slightly. This was a new face, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “What?”

“Well, I don’ know,” Spot said. “I don’ know if you don’t like sharing your thoughts, or if you just don’t like sharin’ ‘em with me.”

His eyebrows went up, mildly surprised. “What? No. It’s just nothing worth sharing.”

“You share _ everything _. Are you sure you’re okay?” Spot looked actually concerned now, and, well, he had a point.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I guess my brain is just kinda,” Race wiggled his hand in useless illustration, “sticky.”

Spot frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive home? I don’t mind takin’ you, if you’re not. I can always bring you back to your car after school tomorrow.”

Race nodded. “Yeah, I’m plenty sobered up by now.”

“Okay.” Spot turned the car into the church parking lot and pulled back into the parking space to the left of Race’s car, which was now the only one in the lot.

“I’m sorry,” Race said quietly, not entirely sure what he was sorry about.

Spot frowned again. “For what?”

Race shrugged. “Bein’ difficult? I dunno.”

“If I wanted someone easy, I’d go get with someone easy,” Spot chuckled.

“I’m definitely _ some _ kind of easy.” Race shot back with a smirk, and the briefest indication of an amused smile flashed across Spot’s face. Race leaned across the center console to press a light kiss to his lips. “Thanks again for rescuing me.”

“Any time.” Spot placed his hand on Race’s cheek and kissed him again a little harder. “You’d better go, before your folks start worrying.”

Race nodded, stealing one more quick kiss before he unbuckled. “I’ll text you when I get home?”

“Please do.”

* * *

Race tumbled into bed, exhausted. It hadn’t been a particularly busy day, but he was damn tired. He yawned, pawing blindly around the bed for his phone so he could text Spot.

“_ I didn’t die _”

A reply came almost immediately. “_ Damn, I thought my long game had finally succeeded _”

Race rolled his eyes. “_ You’ll have to try harder than that _”

“_ I’ll see you at school tomorrow, gorgeous _”

“_ goodnight _” Race added a heart emoji, then deleted it, then added another, and then deleted it again before hitting send and dropping his phone onto the bed beside him as he rolled over onto his face, groaning.


	51. Lolol You Though We Were Gonna Let Them Be Happy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to change.

Watching Race, Albert, and Jack interact reminded Spot vaguely of watching a nature documentary—you try to understand what’s going on, but at the end of the day, you’re just applying your own thoughts, feelings, and values to creatures that know not of such things, and everything comes down to sex and food.

“I saw him at the mailbox again yesterday, and he smiled at me again.” Jack sighed wistfully. “I want to name our first son after him.”

Race blinked slowly. “You want to name you and Dave’s first son...after Dave? Or is this throwing back to my gang war baby, ‘cause I thought we were already settled on Albert 2: Baby Boogaloo?”

“I’m gonna be a great godfather,” Albert added, speaking around a Capri-Sun straw in his mouth and nodding sagely.

“Yeah, if ya don’t drown first,” Race replied, flicking at the foil pouch in Albert’s hand.

Albert batted Race’s hand away. “But what a way to go.”

“‘Albert was my best friend, he died as he lived—deepthroating tiny plastic straws.’”

“Yeah, fuck sea turtles or whatever.”

“See, this is why you’re single,” Race said, shifting slowly sideways, pitching almost entirely out of his chair to lean against Spot, and Spot responded instinctively by putting his arm around his shoulders. “If you’d just stop trying to fuck turtles,” Race continued, “maybe you could find a girlfriend.”

“Can we get back to the point?” Jack pouted.

Albert just rolled his eyes heavily, setting his now empty Capri-Sun pouch down on the table. “You think you’re in love, and it’s pathetic—we get it.”

“That’s not the point!”

Spot tuned out their nonsense in favor of paying attention to Race. He was being quieter than usual, more listening to his friends’ bullshit than joining in. That wasn’t like him. “Hey,” Spot asked softly, “are you feeling alright?”

“Hm?” Race looked up at him. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He had that thousand-yard stare going on, and Spot wasn’t sure what to make of it at all. “Just tired.”

Spot nodded tentatively. “Okay.” He pulled him in a little closer and more securely, so he could relax. This seemed like a great idea until Race slid the rest of the way out of his chair and hit the cafeteria floor, nearly dragging Spot down with him. “What the fuck?” Spot muttered, looking at the heap of blond twink at his feet.

“Ow,” Race whined, ignoring Albert snickering at him. “What was that for?”

Spot stammered, flustered. “Wh— I didn’t do anything!”

“You pulled me,” Race grumbled, clambering gracelessly back into his chair.

“I did not!”

He grumbled again, but didn’t argue further.

Before Spot had a chance to pursue the issue, Albert spoke up, prodding at Race’s lunch bag, which had been so far ignored on the table in front of him. “Yo, are you gonna eat?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Race swatted Albert’s hands away and pulled his sandwich out, peeling back the cling wrap to take a bite.

Spot frowned slightly. Race had been weird the previous night, and he was still being weird. Race set his sandwich back down, and Albert and Jack shared a brief glance between them, but then carried on talking like nothing had happened. They knew something, and Spot wanted to know what it was, and he didn’t much like needing something from Albert and Jack.

For the remainder of the lunch period, Race was a bit more engaged in the conversation. When the bell rang, he packed the rest of his half-eaten sandwich into his bag and stood up. “Talk to you after school?” he said to Spot.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

He nodded and kissed him quickly before heading out—Race always had to leave quickly after lunch, because his next class was on the other side of the building. Albert and Jack turned to go their separate ways, but Spot managed to get ahold of Jack’s arm before he could escape. 

“Jack.”

Jack stopped, looking back at him. “What’s up?”

“Do you know what’s up with Race? Is he okay?”

Jack glanced towards the hallway, where Race had gone. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

“Is it me? Did I do somethin’?” Spot sighed. “Look, man, I know you an’ Red ain’t exactly my biggest fans, but—”

Jack snorted, clearly amused by Spot’s nickname for Albert. “He hasn’t mentioned you doin’ anything bad.” He shrugged. “Looks like just a normal depressive swing.”

Spot frowned. “Define ‘normal depressive swing’.”

Jack, too, frowned a bit. “You know he’s bipolar, right?”

“S’at what it is?” Spot figured it was something, but he’d never actually thought to ask.

Jack nodded. “Some of it, yeah. You guys haven’t talked about it?”

Spot shrugged, shaking his head. “A little, I guess...”

“Hm.” Jack looked unimpressed, maybe disapproving, but he didn’t comment on it.

Spot bit back a sneer. “Well. I’ll see you around, or whatever.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jack headed into the hallway, only just barely not rolling his eyes.

Spot huffed unhappily and headed to his next class.

* * *

Spot put his pencil to his homework, making a tiny dot on the paper, for what must have been the tenth time. He’d gone downstairs and sat at the kitchen table so Lizzie wouldn’t bother him, but he still found he couldn’t make his brain do math, no matter what he did. Weird—he was usually pretty good at math. With a sigh, he set his pencil down. “Hey, Beth?”

“Yeah, Sean?” she called from the living room.

“What do you know about bipolar disorder?”

He heard the TV pause, and she came into the kitchen. “Not a ton. Why do you ask?”

“Anthony’s bipolar.”

“Anthony—crazy project partner Anthony?”

Spot laughed. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I didn’t go too deep into psych in college, but I know the basics are, more or less, really intense mood swings? Usually pretty long lasting, I think, back and forth between sort of hyper and euphoric, and then depression.”

Spot nodded. That would explain a lot actually.

That also made it sound like the Race he knew was temporary, and everything was about to change.

* * *

“Three  _ fouettés _ into the axel, Tony,” Miss Susan corrected Race as he missed the combination again, and he nodded quickly, shutting his eyes hard in an attempt to reboot his brain. He knew what he was doing—or what he was  _ supposed _ to be doing—but his limbs wouldn’t keep up. Every movement felt sticky and much too deliberate. He tried the combination again, and it went better. The next repetition went a bit downhill again, and so it continued for the rest of class. Things that were usually easy weren’t, and by the time class was over, Race was solidly frustrated.

“It happens to everyone,” Jojo assured him, patting him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, but it’s not supposed to happen to me,” Race grumbled.

“He’s right, Tony.” Miss Susan walked over to the corner where he, Jojo, Finch, and Tommy Boy were packing up their bags. “It was an off night. Don’t give it a second thought.”

Race smiled, but it was rather strained. “Sure thing, Miss Susan. Thanks. Good class tonight.”

She smiled in farewell before moving on to talk to some of the girls.

“What’s it like?” Tommy Boy asked, shoving his dance shoes into the side pocket of his duffel bag. “An off night, I mean.”

Race kicked at his ankles, well out of range. “Fuck off, twinkle toes,” he jeered, with hardly any venom.

“I just— I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, don’t be a dick, Tommy,” Finch snickered.

“I’m not!” he protested. “It’s an honest question!”

Race rolled his eyes heavily.

Luckily, before this spirited debate could get out of hand (as it certainly would have), Finch interrupted with a forced casual, “Hey, you guys wanna step out back, for a minute?”

Jojo nodded in quick affirmation, and Race dumped his dance shoes into his bag, zipping it shut before hoisting it over his shoulder. “Yeah, sure.”

The four made their way out to their usual spot by dumpster, in the gross fluorescent glow of an industrial lamp bolted next to the door. Finch reached into the front pocket of his bag and began digging around.

“What’s up?” Jojo asked, ever the mom friend.

Finch produced a grainy, black and white photograph and held it out towards his friends. “I wanted to show you guys...”

Tommy Boy took the picture and squinted at it for a second, frowning. “The fuck is this?”

Finch sputtered indignantly. “That’s my kid, dumbass!”

“It looks like one of those magic eye pictures!” Tommy Boy insisted.

“Or a crispy lasagna,” Race agreed, nodding.

“Oh, ignore them,” Jojo interrupted, snatching the picture from Tommy Boy. “It’s incredible, Finch.”

Finch laughed breathlessly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well...there they are.”

“D’you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?” Tommy Boy asked.

“No, we won’t know that till Spring.”

“Yeah, it’s barely even a blob right now, Tommy,” Race said, digging around in his dance bag to find the pack of cigarettes he’d tossed in earlier.

“Like a gummy bear.” Finch nodded. “Kaylie is telling her parents now.” Ah, so that’s why she wasn’t there. “I’m gonna tell mine tomorrow.”

Race cringed. “Yikes.” He fished out a cigarette and his lighter. “Anything we can do to help?”

“Probably not,” Finch sighed.

“Well, we’re here for you,” Jojo told him, “no matter what.”

Race and Tommy nodded in agreement. “Hell, yeah,” Race affirmed, and Tommy Boy added, “Always.”

Finch returned a thin smile. “Thanks, guys.”

“‘Course,” Jojo nodded. “We gotcha.”

Race nodded and muttered nonsense agreements as he lit his cigarette. It seemed like everything was getting into a bigger mess by the minute, but he was honestly really lucky. He may not have had a family growing up, and he’d certainly had plenty more than his fair share of pain and tragedy, but he had a damn good team backing him now—Jack and Albert, Spot, his parents, the guys from dance. Race loved and trusted these people more than one less fortunate would have thought possible, and they certainly seemed to feel the same for him. That was lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know manic Race; get ready for depressed Race.


	52. Don’t Mix Sprinkles and Cinnamon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah gives good advice.

“He keeps asking, like, what he did or what’s wrong, and I’m not  _ lying _ , I just don’t know what to say.”

Hannah nodded empathetically. “Have you tried explaining it to him like you have me?”

Race didn’t quite pout and didn’t quite frown, but more somewhere in between. “No.”

“Well, I don’t know him, but he might understand.”

He scoffed, wedging himself further into his trusty couch corner in Hannah’s office. “Hey, babe, you hated me for years, and now that we’ve been together two weeks, I’m upset ‘cause I think maybe you aren’t in love with me, but also I’m not sure if I even know what being in love really is.”

“Well, I was talking more about the depression,” Hannah explained. “You said you’ve been tired, and that things you usually enjoy doing aren’t fun anymore.”

“Oh. Yeah, that too.” He shrugged. “Everything just feels like more trouble than it’s worth.”

Hannah set her notebook down on her desk and leaned towards Race, setting her elbows on her knees. “Can I give you some advice, Tony?”

Race half smirked. “Isn’t that sorta what you’re supposed to do?”

She returned a small smile. “Not exactly.”

He shrugged again. “Go for it.”

“For the sake of the people you care about, be honest with them about your depression. Don’t let them wonder if it’s their fault, if they’ve done something, or if you’re mad at them. That’s not fair to them, and it might help you too.”

“...Shit, I guess that’s some pretty solid advice,” he mumbled after a moment of quiet.

* * *

At this point, Spot wasn’t even surprised when Race showed up at his door on a snowy Saturday afternoon, unannounced and underdressed for the weather. However, he was not expecting the first thing Race said when he opened the door to be, “I have depression.”

Spot blinked a few times. “Uh...Jack said you have bipolar.” It was a stupid response, and he regretted it immediately, cringing.

A brief frown flashed across Race’s face. “I guess that’s more accurate, yeah.”

“Well, come inside.” Spot reached out to grab Race’s shoulder and pull him through the door.

It was snowing lightly, and the idiot had showed up with no coat to speak of. He kicked his shoes off, leaving them in the corner by the front door. There were a few stray snowflakes in his hair, and his cheeks and nose were pink from the cold. It would have been pretty, if it wasn’t so goddamn stupid.

“So why’d you decide to tell me this, now?” Spot asked.

Race shrugged in that evasive way when someone definitely knows exactly why they did what they did, but is trying to pretend it’s no big thing. “Hannah said it wasn’t fair to you if I don’t.”

“Who’s Hannah?”

Panic flashed through his eyes for half a second. “Uh...she’s my therapist.”

“Ah.” Spot nodded. “Right. Aren’t you cold?” He grabbed Race's hand, which was, in fact, cold. “You want some hot chocolate, or—?”

Race looked a bit flustered, but nodded. “Uh, yeah, sure?”

Spot started towards the kitchen. “I’m guessing you’re the marshmallows, whipped cream, chocolate syrup type?”

A smile pushed its way onto Race’s face as he followed him. “How’d you know?”

Spot smiled as well. “You’re you.” He reached into the pantry and pulled out the marshmallows and a packet of Swiss Miss. “How do you feel about cinnamon?”

Race nodded. “Unless you have sprinkles. It’s weird if you do both.”

Spot grabbed the cinnamon before closing the cupboard. “No sprinkles—sorry.”

“Lame.” Race moved to the counter, pushing himself up to sit on it, gripping the edge.

Spot ripped open the chocolate packet and dumped the powder into a mug that he took off the drying rack, then started towards the fridge for the milk. “My mom was depressed, when I was little.” He hoped Race’d wouldn’t mind the non-sequitur.

“Was it cause you were such an asshole as a kid?” Race teased.

Spot flipped him off.

“Well, kid-Spot bummed me out, too.”

“Oh, shut up.” Spot lightly chucked the chocolate syrup bottle at Race’s head.

Race ducked, yelping, and it hit the cabinet behind him, ricocheting onto the floor.

Spot kicked the fridge door closed behind him, milk in one hand and whipped cream in the other. “I don’t know why she was depressed. She just was. Probably had something to do with my dad.”

“It isn’t always situational,” Race said. “Sometimes it’s just chemicals.”

“Yeah, may have been. I don’t know. She got over it, eventually.” He cringed. “That was the wrong way to put it, I know. You know what I mean.”

Race shook his head. “Nah, I get it.”

Spot pressed his lips together into a thin smile and set about making Race’s hot chocolate. What was one supposed to do, when their boyfriend showed up saying they had depression? Spot didn’t know to make him not depressed. He did know how to make him not cold.

“I’m not gonna get over mine,” Race said quietly, staring at the floor. He waved, as if he could brush away what he’d said to clarify. “I mean, it’ll pass. I’ll swing up again; that’s how bipolar works. I just mean mine is chemical.”

Spot nodded. He didn’t really understand, and he doubted he could.

Things were quiet for a moment—it seemed neither of them really knew what to say. Spot popped the mug of currently cold chocolate in the microwave and set it to two and a half minutes. Eventually, Race broke the uncomfortable silence.

“So, Jack told you, huh?”

Spot turned to look at Race. “Yeah, he did. I was worried about you.”

“I guess that’s fair...”

He came to stand in front of him, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of Race’s. “You don’t need to be embarrassed or anything.”

“Of my broken brain, or my friends?”

“Your bipolar or whatever.”

He nodded. “Broken brain.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say  _ that _ ,” Spot argued.

“You don’t have to; I did.”

Spot huffed. “Fine. Whatever you want to call it, you don’t have to be embarrassed about it. Is...” He frowned as realization dawned. “Is that why you’ve been acting so weird?”

Well, now Race  _ certainly _ looked embarrassed, looking at the floor again and nodding.

“Hey.” Spot tipped Race’s head back up with a finger under his chin. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

“Well, you’re really hot, so you’re kind of intimidating.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Spot placed a hand on the back of Race’s neck and pulled him in for a quick kiss before heading back towards the microwave. “I know that’s hard for you, but—”

Race grabbed a spoon out of the dish rack to chuck at the back of Spot’s head. He missed, and it whizzed over his shoulder and clattered to the floor as Spot snickered.

The microwave beeped and turned off, and Spot carefully retrieved the hot mug and set it on the counter next to Race. “I’ll let you do your own toppings. I’d hate to get the marshmallow to chocolate ratio wrong.”

“Yeah, no way you’d do it right,” Race agreed, pulling the marshmallows and such towards him.

Spot leaned against the counter next to Race and watched as he piled a mountain of marshmallows and whipped cream on top of the chocolate. Somehow, Race’s arrival had made his day infinitely worse, and yet he was glad Race was there. It took him a moment to realize that, while he  _ was _ glad Race was there, he was very, very unhappy that Race wasn’t okay. The thought ‘I didn’t save this bastard’s life twice just for him to hate it’ crossed his mind. It was like studying really hard for a test and then failing.

Once he finished the construction of his now very precarious beverage, Race looked at Spot rather sheepishly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you...”

“That’s not—” Spot sighed. “Look, I’m just saying you could have. You can. But I know we don’t exactly have the most trustworthy history.” It came out a bit snappier than he had intended.

Race looked at him, surprised, and maybe a bit hurt. “What—you think I don’t trust you?”

Spot shrugged. He didn’t like the way Race was looking at him, he didn’t like being the cause of it, and hell, by all accounts, Race  _ shouldn’t _ trust him.

Race huffed. “Now, who isn’t sharing?”

Spot rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m not really sure if you trust me, Tony, but I wish you would.”

“Well happy birthday, I do trust you.”

Oh. “Well, good. Fantastic.” Spot crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the living room.

Race rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t make you less of an asshole, though.”

“Yeah? Well, takes one to know one.”

“No shit, I’m the king of the assholes.” Race shot back, trying very hard to glare instead of smile.

Spot also gave it his best shot. Unfortunately, Race had whipped cream on his nose, and Spot snorted into laughter after about half a second.

Race swatted at him, laughing as well. “Shut up, I’m being very serious right now.”

“Sorry.” Spot reached up to wipe the whipped cream off Race’s nose with his thumb. “You’ve got cream on your face, and I didn’t put it there; I’m very jealous. Slut.”

Race laughed more, reaching out to shove him.

Spot smiled. Maybe he couldn’t make Race not depressed, but maybe, just maybe, he could help a little. “Come on.” He nodded towards the living room. “Let’s see what’s on TV. Just don’t spill that shit.”

“You know the best way to get a kid to do something is tell them not to.”

“Good thing you’re eighteen fucking years old.”

* * *

Race woke up feeling disoriented and a bit off guard, as one does when waking up from an unexpected nap. This feeling increased as he failed to recognize his surroundings, and he frowned, confused, as he rolled over to look around the room. It didn’t take long for him to realize it was Spot’s. If the lack of any sort of decoration or comfort wasn’t enough, the light chirping coming from the birdcage in the corner certainly was. Of course, the dead giveaway was Spot himself, sitting at his desk, writing on a piece of paper.

“Whazfuck,” Race mumbled, sitting partway up and rubbing at one of his eyes with his knuckles.

Spot glanced back over his shoulder. “Hey, sleeping beauty.”

Race grunted, sitting up the rest of the way. “Why’m I in your bed?”

“You fell asleep,” Spot explained casually, “so I brought you up here. Aunt Beth’s couch ain’t great to sleep on, trust me.”

Another grunt. “Sorry.”

“Dude, why?”

He blinked. “Cause I fell asleep?”

“So?”

Race ignored Spot’s question in favor of another of his own. “Did you carry me up here?”

“Yeah?” Spot shrugged. “You’re not heavy.”

Race grunted yet again in acknowledgment and flopped back down against the pillow. “What time is it?”

“Uh...five thirty-six.”

Race hummed. He’d been asleep for probably a little over an hour, but he still felt kinda tired—naps are seldom properly restful.

“You feeling alright?” Spot asked, standing and making his way over to the bed.

“No, I am mightily deficient.”

“Oh yeah?”

Race nodded. “My body doesn’t naturally produce enough vitamin ‘U’.”

“Oh my  _ god _ , I want to walk away from you so bad, but you’re cute.” Spot flopped down on top of Race, wrapping his arms around him, and rolled them over onto their sides.

Race beamed, and very nearly told Spot he loved him, but stopped at the last second.

“How are you so soft?” Spot mumbled, sounding genuinely confused about Race’s softness.

“It’s a special prize for being the gayest boy on the planet.”

“Hm.” Spot tightened his arms around Race.

“What, you think I’m wrong?”

“Yeah. You’re the gayest boy in the universe.”

Race laughed lightly and snuggled closer. Spot was nice. “I think I get why Ethan isn’t over you.”

“And why’s that?”

“Cause you’re wonderful,” Race sighed more than spoke, curling up to bury his face in the crook of Spot’s neck.

Spot chuckled and shifted into a more comfortable position, holding Race firmly but gently against his chest.

“You like this with all your boyfriends, or am I just special?” Race said it teasingly, but he also genuinely wanted to know. It wasn’t  _ really _ asking if Spot loved him, but still, it was something.

In true Spot Conlon fashion, Spot grumbled defensively, “I’m good to all my boyfriends. Doesn’t mean you’re not special.”

Race rolled his eyes. “You’re useless.”

“Whaaat?” Spot protested, pulling back to look at Race. “You asked, I answered.”

“‘S a cop out answer.”

Spot huffed. “Fine. You wanna know about my past relationships? You’re gonna have to be more specific.” He rolled onto his back, leaving his arm around Race. “Did I cuddle my ex-boyfriends? Yes, absolutely. Did I put up with your level of absolute bullshit? No, I did not.”

Race grinned. “So you like me.”

“Ohmyfuckinggod,  _ yes _ , dumbass,” Spot snapped. “God’s sake.”

The grin faltered for a moment. “Okay, well, good.”

Spot sighed, pulled Race in, and kissed his forehead. Maybe he noticed Race’s change in tone, or maybe he was just exhausted. Race tended to have that effect on people. How long would it take for Spot to get tired of putting up with his bullshit? Then again, Spot seemed to be moving in the opposite direction, getting  _ less _ tired of Race as time went on.

Race snuggled up tighter against him and focused very hard, trying to telepathically convey his feelings for him, even though he wasn’t especially certain what those feelings were.

Spot carded his fingers through Race’s hair. “You still tired?”

“Yeah,” Race confirmed. “Naps suck.”

Spot hummed, perhaps in agreement, and it came to Race’s attention in that small and insignificant moment that he was lucky. Regardless of whatever deeper feelings he did or didn’t have, and whether or not Spot reciprocated what was or wasn’t there, he was lucky. He had showed up out of nowhere on a Saturday afternoon, announcing his severe mental illness, and Spot had just rolled with it, brought him inside, made him hot chocolate, and then carried him upstairs when he fell asleep. He was good to Race, even through the rapid fire bullshit that seemed incapable of slowing down. Maybe, he thought, he had finally found  _ his person _ . Of course, he thought that about all of his boyfriends, but he’d never actually had a  _ reason _ to think it, before. Race was always quick to fall in love—or, at least, what he thought was love—and that had proven to be quite problematic in the past. He always came on too strong, and he was always disappointed at best, heartbroken at worst, in the end. People had suggested that maybe he should ‘tone it down’, but what’s the point of being with someone who doesn’t want you to be you? Now, Spot had seen him at way worse than ‘clingy, overbearing, and annoying’. Spot had seen him at downright vicious, and there he was. That  _ had _ to be a good sign, right? Or was that just wishful thinking? Albert had made it very clear that he thought Spot was just using Race, and his parents had suggested the same, but Race had a hard time believing that. If Spot was just using him, why would he take care of Race the way he had been? The hospital visits, offering to come get him whenever anything was going wrong, and today with the hot cocoa and the nap—why, if there wasn’t any deeper feeling? What did Spot have to gain except  _ Race? _

“Beth’ll be home, soon,” Spot said. “We can say we’re working on the project, if you want to stay.”

“I can’t stay all night; my folks...”

Spot, the gorgeous bastard, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Who says I want you to, anyway?”

Race chuckled. “Pretty sure that stopped being believable about a month ago.”

“Shaddap.” Spot kissed Race’s forehead again. “Your folks know where you’ve been all afternoon?”

“Yeah, I texted Mom after my appointment.”

“Hm. Surprised the cops haven’t arrived.”

Race rolled his eyes with a huff, somewhere between amusement and annoyance. “They’ll have to get over it eventually.”

“Yeah, they will.” Spot didn’t sound very sure of that, but he made up for it in determination, pulling Race even closer.

Race smiled, happy to be held. “Even if they don’t, I still like you.”

Spot hummed, kissing him briefly. “You fuckin’ better.”

* * *

After a bit, they decided it was probably best for Race to head home before Beth got back, and before Mr. and Mrs. Higgins decided to send out the brute squad.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” Race promised as he tied his shoes.

Spot opened the coat closet near the front door. “Here—take this.” He tossed a coat to Race. “I don’t want you freezin’ to death out there. You’re a fuckin’ idiot, goin’ out like that.” He gestured to Race’s outfit.

“I’ve got a hoodie!” Race replied indignantly, as if that was proper attire for a winter in New York (writes the idiot who wears hoodies for winters in NE Ohio).

“Just put on the damn coat,” Spot commanded, closing the closet door loudly. “You can return it to me on Monday.”

Race rolled his eyes, but obeyed, accepting the coat and shrugging it on as he stood up. “It’s gonna be too short for me.”

“Shut the fuck up, insufferable shit,” Spot said in the same tone of voice he often used to call Race beautiful.

Race smiled and zipped up the coat—it  _ was _ too short. “Thanks, babe.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you Monday.”

Race pressed a kiss to Spot’s lips before heading out into the admittedly very cold evening. He got home just before seven and kicked his shoes off towards the hall closet as he shut the door behind him.

“I’m home,” he called.

“Hi, sweetie!” his mom called back from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready!”

“What’s for dinner?” he asked as he started to take Spot’s coat off, but then decided not to, because it smelled like him.

“Let’s see...we’ve got chicken, fancy mac ‘n’ cheese, green beans...”

Race made his way into the kitchen. “How’s it fancy?”

“It’s not Kraft,” his dad, at the stove, said, smiling.

Race snickered. “Wow, fancy.”

His mom, who was busy stirring butter and salt into the green beans, hummed quizzically. “When did you get that coat, Tony? I don’t recognize it.”

“Oh, it’s Sean’s.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I forgot mine, and he didn’t want me to be cold.”

“That was nice of him,” she said, smiling lightly.

“Yeah, he’s nice,” Race agreed. Now, if his parents would just  _ believe it. _


	53. The Big Sad(TM)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race skips school.

The next couple of days passed. Probably. Race wasn’t really paying attention. Everything was just school, sleeping, and zoning out in dance class. At dinner on Tuesday night, Mrs. Higgins mentioned she’d be going out of town for a few days to help Grandma Miller with something or other that Uncle Teddy couldn’t handle on his own. On Wednesday, Race didn’t get out of bed till Mrs. Higgins called him three times and eventually had to come upstairs and convince him to get up. It wasn’t that his parents weren’t understanding or accommodating when it came to his mental health, it was that the U.S. schooling system wasn’t, so he couldn’t just skip.

That evening, after Race had gone to bed early, he overheard his parents talking in the living room while he was on his way downstairs to get a drink of water. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t go,” Mrs. Higgins said. “Do you think he’ll be alright by himself during the day?”

“It’ll only be for Friday afternoon, Rachel,” Mr. Higgins assured her. “He’ll be on his own for a few hours after school, and then I’ll be home for the rest, and for the whole weekend.”

“I don’t think he’s been eating enough…”

Race spent basically the entirety of Thursday half asleep, even going so far as to skip out on tap class that evening.

Mrs. Higgins came up to say goodbye before she left, Friday morning. “You call me right away if you need anything, okay sweetie?”

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Race promised thickly, still quite sleepy as he sat up and she pressed a kiss into the mess of curls on top of his head.

“I’ll text you when I get there safe,” she told him, as had become Higgins custom when making a drive involving any highway time.

“Alright. Tell Grandma and uncle Teddy I say ‘hi’.”

“I will.” She kissed the top of his head again before heading for the door. “Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, Mom.”

And off she went. Still sitting in bed, Race glanced at his clock—seven twenty-three, time to get ready for school. Another three minutes passed as he continued to sit and stare at his clock.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and he lay back down.

* * *

My Best Pal-bert: Dude where are you

Snack-Sized Satan: Hey, you good?

My Best Pal-bert: Are you skipping?

He’ll Paint You Like One Of Your French Girls: Youd better not disappear again

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: I’ll kill you

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: jk love you

* * *

“We need to talk.”

Spot took a deep breath in and sighed slowly. The one thing he was enjoying about Race’s absence, the single thing, was the lack of Jack Kelly and Albert DaSilva, and there they were, disrupting his peaceful lunch. “About Race?”

Albert rolled his eyes. “No, about the queen of England.”

Jack smacked him in the stomach with the back of his hand. “No. Yeah, about Race.”

Spot gestured for them to sit across from him.

“We’ll just get right to it,” Jack said as they sat down. “Race is in a depressive swing.”

Spot almost rolled his eyes, barely managing to catch himself. “Yeah, I know.” Even if Race hadn’t flat out told him last Saturday, the boy had been seriously out of it all week.

“Glad you’ve been paying attention,” Albert sneered.

Spot fixed him with a hard glare. “Of course I’ve been paying attention to my boyfriend.”

Jack rolled his eyes heavily. “Yes ladies, you’re both pretty, now can we focus please?”

Albert grumbled nonsense, and Spot sat back, waiting for Jack to go on.

“When he has a bad episode, we like to keep an eye on him,” Jack explained, “take turns checking on him and whatever, and we figured you should probably be in the loop, too.”

Spot blinked a few times, more than a little surprised that Jack and Albert decided to include him in anything. “Thanks.”

Jack shrugged.

“He likes you,” Albert said, shrugging as well, clearly displeased with the whole thing.

“I like him,” Spot replied. Jack seemed to be coming around, but he wondered when Albert was gonna get it through his thick skull that he meant Race no harm.

“And like, duh we’re gonna be keeping an eye on him, we always do, that’s being friends or whatever,” Albert continued. “The point is it being more of a group effort kinda thing. Like, you check on him, and then you let us know what’s up, and vice versa.” 

“Easier to keep him from lying if we all know what’s going on.” Jack nodded.

Spot frowned. “Ain’t that a little dishonest?”

“He knows we do it,” Jack explained.

“This ain’t the first time around the block with him bein’ depressed,” Albert agreed.

Spot supposed that made sense. Race was pretty damn self-aware; he would know if he needed support. “Well, alright.” He pulled out his phone and opened his contacts, then passed his phone to Jack. “Put your numbers in. I’ll check on him this afternoon and let you know what’s up.”

* * *

Around three p.m., after waking up and going back to sleep and waking up again five times, Race decided a change of scenery would be nice, so he went downstairs, clad in his blue and white vertically striped pajama pants—the only pair he owned that weren’t just plain sweat pants, bought because he wanted to be one of the Bananas in Pyjamas for Halloween one year—and a soft, gray blanket tied around his bare shoulders like a cape. He padded barefoot to the kitchen to grab a box of cereal, and then back to the living room to curl up on the couch, where he laid for an indeterminate amount of time without eating any cereal. After about five minutes of thinking about sitting up to grab the remote, he did, and flopped back onto his side to click through channels, not really interested in anything that was on.

At some point, someone knocked on the door, and Race was glad they didn’t have a dog to lose its mind barking and make him get up. As it was, he couldn’t even be bothered to get up when a text came in on his phone, which he had left in the kitchen by accident. It was probably just one of the guys asking why he wasn’t at school. He could just text them later. He turned off the TV and rolled over, burying his face in the back of the couch. Maybe he should take another nap, that’s a low effort way to pass the time. Plus it’s hard to be restless and existentially tired when you’re asleep. Yeah, he should take another nap.

“You should really lock your fucking window.”

He sat bolt upright, looking around at the sudden, unexpected voice. Spot stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking incredulous.

“What the fuck— What are you doing here?” Race asked.

“Making sure you’re still alive!” Spot replied, frowning. “Jack, Albert, and I have been tryin’ to get ahold of you all day!”

“I been asleep… You crawled through my window again!?”

“Yeah.” Spot nodded, like this was totally normal.

Race didn’t really have an answer for that, so he just adjusted the blanket still tied around his shoulders.

After a very weird moment of silence, Spot came over and sat next to him. “Bad day?”

Race shrugged. “More just tired.”

Spot frowned deeply. “When’sa last time you slept?”

“Uh...like an hour ago.”

Spot let out a low breath. “Well...you look like hell, gorgeous.”

“That’s pretty contradictory, babe,” Race replied, leaning back against the couch cushions.

“Come here.” Spot reached out to pull him into his arms instead, and Race went willingly, curling under Spot’s arm and leaning into his chest. It was a little awkward, with him being a good five or six inches taller, but Race always felt more comfortable in Spot’s arms than out of them. Spot began to comb his fingers through Race’s hair, which Race knew for a fact was greasy and matted from a few too many days without washing.

“Ew, no, I’m gross,” Race protested, reaching up to push Spot’s hand away.

Spot pushed back. “Don’t worry about it.”

Race thought about arguing, but that would probably be more effort than he was willing to put forth just then.

“Have you eaten?” Spot asked, resuming the task of detangling Race’s hair. “You barely ate lunch at school, all week.”

“Yeah.” Race glanced at the box of cereal sitting on the floor next to the couch, pretty sure he’d eaten at least a bit.

Spot huffed. “Anything more than dry Froot Loops?”

Race shook his head.

“How about this?” Spot suggested. “You go take a shower, and I’ll make you something to eat.”

“‘M not really hungry,” Race mumbled.

“You need to eat, Tony.”

“I’ll eat later.” He probably wouldn’t.

“Please?”

He sighed. “Fine, but only ‘cause I know you won’t shut up till I do.”

“Okay.” Spot stood up and held out a hand for Race. “What do you want?”

“I want a nap,” he grumbled, taking Spot’s hand anyway.

Spot pulled him to his feet. “Shower, then food, then nap. Deal?”

Race let out a huffy exhale. “Deal.”

“A’right.” Spot headed towards the kitchen. “Anything in particular you want?”

“Nah, whatever.” Race shrugged, heading for the stairs. He wasn’t hungry, and he definitely didn’t want to shower, but Spot wanted him to, and he was coming to realize that, a good majority of the time, he seemed pretty willing to do whatever it was that Spot wanted, especially if it made him happy.

Race got into the shower and, for a while, just stood there, letting the water drum against his back. He usually got pretty hardcore dissociative when he was in a bad depression, and the water was soothing. He quickly got lost in thought as his mind meandered hazily. Spot had climbed in through his second floor window—again—just to check on him. He’d said that he, Jack, and Albert had been trying to reach him all day. Were they getting along, now? Had Race missing school been the catalyst to finally having his three favorite jackasses put aside their differences? A tiny, not-quite smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was lucky he had people that cared about him enough to deal with each other. Unsurprisingly, now that he had gotten into the shower, Race didn’t want to get out. It took a good five minutes for him to remember he needed to wash his hair—that was sort of the whole point. All in all, his shower was at least twice as long as usual, simply because each step took three times the amount of effort as usual. Eventually, he turned the water off and grabbed a towel, roughly drying himself off before pulling his pajama pants back on and padding back downstairs.

“So, uh...” Spot called from the kitchen, presumably having heard Race on the stairs. “I’m not a great cook or anything, but I know how to melt a Kraft single between two pieces of bread, so...”

Race huffed, mildly amused, and headed for the kitchen.

When he walked in, Spot turned to him and smiled. “I also know how to microwave soup.”

Race chuckled at this. “Proud of you.”

Spot handed him a plate with a plain grilled cheese and a small bowl of tomato soup.

“Thanks, babe.”

“Y’welcome.”

Race went to sit in one of the tall chairs at the kitchen island and took a bite of his sandwich.

It tasted like cardboard.

It probably tasted pretty good, in reality, but Race’s taste buds had decided to take a vacation from reality, so it tasted like cardboard.

Spot leaned back on the island next to him, folding his arms over his chest in a relaxed sort of way. “You want to copy my notes from Bio?”

Race nodded. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

It occurred to Race that they only had one week of school left before Christmas break. They were presenting their project on Thursday, and turning in the final draft on Friday. He had final exams coming up, and he hadn’t even given them a thought.

“Shit,” he mumbled, taking another halfhearted bite of his sandwich.

“What?”

“Time flies when you spend a few weeks in the hospital.”

Spot nodded thoughtfully.

“I should probably start studying for finals,” Race continued, knowing it was wishful thinking. He‘d never been good at studying, even when his brain was on its most productive and best behavior; he could reread or rewrite notes, drill flash cards, whatever, and it didn’t seem to ever make a difference. If he didn’t get it, he didn’t get it, and studying served as nothing more than a frustration. Luckily, he was a genius, so he usually didn’t need it.

“I’ll study with ya,” Spot suggested, shrugging.

Race nodded. “I can make you cheat sheets.”

“I don’t need  _ cheat sheets _ . I actually learn things.”

“Suit yourself.” Race shrugged, absently stirring his tomato soup with the corner of his sandwich. He took a bite, and the soup made it better, but still not desirable. He knew he should eat, he  _ needed _ to eat, but he very much didn’t want to, and Race was even worse at making himself do things he didn’t want to do than he was at studying.

It was probably a couple minutes later, when Spot spoke again. “Could you—and you don’t have to—but, like, could you tell me about it? Your bipolar or depression or whatever?”

Race looked up at him, a little bit surprised. “Uh, yeah, sure. What do you want to know?”

“What’s it like?”

He smiled wanly. “Fucking exhausting.” He set his sandwich down and instead began to fidget with his spoon. “And not like I’m tired all the time. I am right now, but when I’m manic I don’t sleep at all for days.” He pushed his free hand up through his hair. “It’s, like, existentially tiring.”

Spot cringed. “Man, that sucks.”

Race nodded, letting out a not properly amused huff. “Yeah, it does. Being manic feels great while it’s happening, but I know it’s not good.” He gestured to the scarred stab wound on his ribs. “Obviously.”

Spot’s expression hardened, and he reached out to brush his hand over the scar. Race caught ahold of his hand and wound their fingers together, and Spot looked up at him. Race got caught in his eyes for a moment before looking away. No one had ever really asked him what it was like before, and it felt like a very personal, intimate question.

“It’s like if staying up late for New Years when you were a little kid was a state of being,” he continued. “Everything is just exciting, and fun, and ya get this constant feeling of being so close to... _ something _ , I don’t even know what, but y’don’t ever actually get there, so it’s just anticipation winding up tighter and tighter and tighter until something snaps.”

“And the depression?” Spot asked.

“I dunno, man, it’s depression.” Race shrugged. “It’s not just being Big Sad, or anything, it’s more like being tired-er than should even be possible. Everything is exhausting, and nothing is worth the effort, and I lowkey wanna die about it, but I’m way too tired to even think about actually trying anything.”

“And what do I do? How do I help?”

Race shrugged again. “Just keep bein’ with me, I guess. There’s not really any ‘fixing it’.”

“Okay,” Spot said, squeezing Race’s hand. “‘M here.”

“Y’don’t have to, though,” Race said, quickly backpedaling for fear of coming across as too needy or clingy. “Like, this is normal, I’m okay—I mean I’m  _ not _ okay, but like, not out of the ordinary or anything.”

“It’s alright, Tony,” Spot assured him. “I want to be here.”

Race didn’t quite believe him; who would want a useless, depressed lump as a boyfriend? He usually acquired and chased off all his boyfriends within the span of a manic episode, so this was an entirely new experience.

“Doesn’t all this bother you?” Race asked.

Spot groaned. “There’s no right answer to that question.”

Race huffed. “Yeah, I guess not.” He was quiet for a moment before continuing. “Just...if you’re gonna bail, at least give me a heads up?”

“What?” Spot asked incredulously. “First of all, that doesn’t make sense, like, ‘hey, I’m gonna break up with you in a week or two, just so you know’. Second, what?”

“Wh— No, I mean, like...I dunno. My one ex, out of nowhere, told me he’d had enough, and then he was just gone.”

Spot just stared at him for a moment, like he really couldn’t believe what Race was saying. “Let me get this straight.” He put his hands together like he was praying and pressed his fingers to his fingers to his lips, then pointed his hands at Race. “You think I’m  _ not _ gonna tell you when you’re driving me insane, until it’s too late?”

“...Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

In an effort to avoid saying something else stupid, Race took another bite of his sandwich.

“Racer,” Spot continued, “and I mean this with my whole heart...” He paused and took a deep breath. “You’re a dumbass, and you drive me insane.”

Race burst into laughter, half choking on his mouthful of sandwich, and Spot grinned.

“Jeez, tell me how you really feel.” Race coughed.

Spot patted his back firmly, snickering, “I always do.”

“You like me, though,” Race said, as a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, I do.”

Race had managed to get down about half his sandwich by this time, and although he didn’t really feel up to finishing it, his stomach did hurt a bit less. “D’you wanna watch a movie or something?” he suggested, poking disinterestedly at the rest of his sandwich.

Spot raised an eyebrow. “Thought you wanted to take a nap.”

“I didn’t say  _ I _ want to watch a movie.” He retorted. “You can be my pillow.”

Spot chuckled. “Sure. You done eating?”

Race nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Spot took his plate. “I’ll clean this up. You set up a movie.”

“Pirates of the Caribbean Two it is.” Race nodded and headed for the living room.

It took him a second to locate the DVD. Some idiot—probably him—had put it in the wrong case. Once the disc was located and in the DVD player, Race flopped onto the couch, once again wrapping himself in his fluffy blanket cape.

Spot came in from the kitchen and sat down next to him, and Race frowned. “That doesn’t look like a pillow.”

“Well, I’m a person, so.”

“No, lie down,” Race whined, pushing at his shoulder.

Spot leaned back onto the arm of the couch, and Race clambered halfway on top of him, tucking his shoulder under Spot’s arm and resting his cheek against his chest as he curled one leg up over Spot’s hip and flopped his arm up and across his chest. Spot chuckled lightly and carded his fingers through Race’s hair, gently working out the tangles and scratching at his scalp.

Race let out a slow, quiet sigh, letting his eyes close. “How are you such a complete asshole and so wonderful at the same time?”

“It’s a gift,” Spot replied, deadpan.

“Well, Merry Christmas to me,” Race mumbled, nuzzling closer and taking a slow, deep breath. Spot smelled like green apples—not actual green apples, more like fake green apple flavor, or like a scented candle—and laundry detergent, and it was good. He was good. Spot pressed his lips against the top of Race’s head, not quite a kiss, and left them there, holding him close.

* * *

Spot passed the time by listening to Race’s breathing as it slowed, deepened, and evened out, completely relaxed. Race really did look like a goddamn angel when he slept, with his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and his perfect lips barely parted, no mania, no depression, just him.

In spite of most people’s first impressions, Spot was no stranger to feeling affection. It was different with Race, though. With his past boyfriends, it was a warm, bright, cozy sort of feeling. With Race, it was more like getting punched in the chest, but good. Spot supposed that was appropriate. He placed his hand on the back of Race’s neck and traced his thumb over the scar there—from the car accident, he assumed. God, how old had Race said he was? Five? Spot tried to remember back then. Had he and Race gone to kindergarten, together? They probably had. Spot didn’t remember meeting Race.

It was weird, just solidly  _ weird _ , how Race had gone from classmate to crush to enemy to stranger back to classmate and to enemy and now to  _ this _ —boyfriend—someone Spot really fucking cared about. There was so much more to him than Spot had ever known, and probably a lot more that Spot still didn’t know, but he wanted to know it all. He wanted to understand. He wanted to get to the bottom of this absolute bombshell of a person, and if he got caught in the explosion, so be it. Somehow, against all odds and reason, Spot was falling for Race, and oh, he was falling  _ hard _ . They didn’t fit together. At all. They clashed in almost every way, like flint and steel, crashing together to make a spark. Sparks became flames, and flames became fires, and Spot got the feeling they could burn the whole world down. If Spot had to fall in love with someone, at least it was someone who could light him the fuck up.

Race shifted in his sleep, as if he were trying to pull himself even closer to Spot—despite already being mostly on top of him—and mumbled something that sounded a good bit like “poison for Kuzco.”

“Kuzco’s poison,” Spot muttered back absently, dragging his fingers through Race’s hair again.

Race shifted again, whining quietly before settling back down.  _ Cute _ , Spot thought.  _ Really fucking cute _ .

Then, he heard the garage door open.

_ Shit _ .

He glanced down and Race and decided instantly that he wasn’t moving. What kind of monster would move when Race looked so comfy and peaceful? So he just leaned back, sighed, and braced for the inevitable.

A minute or so later, the door opened, and Mr. Higgins came inside, carrying a few bags of what were probably groceries. Spot debated whether or not he should say something to announce his presence, but he didn’t really want to, nor did he want to risk waking Race up, so he didn’t. Mr. Higgins bumped the door closed with his knee and turned to head towards the kitchen, catching sight of the boys on the couch as he did so. His gaze hardened for half a second, but then he looked at Race, and then back up to Spot.

“He asleep?” he asked quietly.

Spot nodded.

Mr. Higgins nodded back in answer and quietly crossed the room towards the kitchen.

Well, that was awkward, but Spot would count any interaction with Mr. Higgins that didn’t involve him shooting Spot on sight as a victory. He looked back down at Race, who showed absolutely zero signs of waking up, like a human weighted blanket. Spot smiled lightly and wrapped his arms around him. He decided being Race’s pillow wasn’t such a bad way to spend a Friday night.

* * *

When Race woke up, the room was dim, and the TV was off. “Mm...how long was I out?” he muttered, rubbing his knuckles against a closed eye.

Spot shrugged as best he could with Race on top of him. “I don’t know, like two hours?”

“Mm,” Race grunted again, still not quite awake.

Spot sounded like he was trying not to giggle. “You’re a really heavy sleeper.”

“Maybe you’re just shit at waking people up,” Race retorted sleepily.

“I didn’t try.”

“Well, then what are you complaining about?” Race yawned, pushing a hand into Spot’s solar plexus as he sat up.

(Andy: Dude, no one knows what a solar plexus is if they haven’t taken martial arts)

(B: Shut up there isn’t another word for it, sternum is too high}

(Andy: Okay, kids, the solar plexus is, like, the bottom of your ribcage on your chest)

“I’m not complaining!” Spot protested. “I’m just observing! You’re a good weighted blanket.” He laughed.

“Now, you’re callin’ me fat!”

Spot scoffed. “You’re a fuckin’ twig.”

“It’s pronounced ‘twink’,” Race replied, voice heavy with dignity.

“You’re both.” Spot swatted playfully at Race’s head. “They ain’t mutually exclusive.”

“I feel like they sort of are, though.”

“How?”

“Well, I guess not mutually exclusive, more  _ in _ clusive, at least partially, like squares and rectangles.”

“So are all twigs twinks or are all twinks twigs?”

“The second one.” Race nodded.

Spot smirked. “Fair enough.”

Race yawned again. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost seven,” Spot told him.

“Oh, shit.” Race looked over at the clock up on the living room wall. “Did my dad come home?”

“Yeah.” Spot pushed his fingers through his hair, glancing towards the hallway. “He went that way.”

Race grunted in acknowledgment before calling down the hall. “Hi, Dad!”

“Good morning, bud!” Mr. Higgins called back.

Race turned back to Spot. “D’ I miss anything exciting?”

“Nah,” Spot chuckled. “Didn’t even slander my character or anything.”

Race sighed. “Good.”

“I should be getting home, though.” Spot stood up.

Race stood as well, and draped himself against Spot in a rather cumbersome hug. “Thanks for comin’ over.”

“‘Course.” Spot wrapped his arms around him. “I’ll text tomorrow, see how you’re doin’, okay?”

“Mkay.”

Spot gave him a little smile and patted him on the shoulder before heading towards the door.

Race plopped back onto the couch, and, not for the first time, he almost said ‘I think I love you’, but managed to change it halfway through. “I think—you’re really cool.”

Yikes.

Spot let out something between a laugh and a scoff. “Thanks, baby.”

Race flipped him off, and he chuckled, shaking his head as he closed the door after him. Race exhaled heavily, sagging back against the couch cushions. He was still tired.

One thing people never really talked about with mental illness was how fucking exhausting it was—like a weighted blanket, but bad, just holding you down and tiring you out and keeping you from doing even the simplest of things.

A few minutes later, Mr. Higgins walked in on his way towards the kitchen. “Did Sean leave?”

“Yeah,” Race answered.

Mr. Higgins just hummed and continued towards the kitchen. “What do you want for dinner?”

“‘M not really hungry.”

“Okay, we can wait.” Mr. Higgins returned moments later with a glass of water and took a seat in the armchair. “How was school?”

“I, uh...” Race awkwardly pushed a hand through his hair. “I didn’t feel up to going, today.”

Mr. Higgins raised his eyebrows. “You feeling okay?”

Race shrugged. “Not great, but y’know.”

Mr. Higgins stood and made his way over to the couch. He pressed the back of his hand against Race’s forehead. “You don’t feel too warm, right now...”

“Nah, I’m not sick or anything.”

“Oh.” Mr. Higgins sat down next to him, placing his glass of water on the coffee table. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Race shrugged. “Nothin’ new or special. Just normal, broken brain stuff.”

“Anything I can do to help? Are you eating enough?”

“Probably not. I pretended to have cereal earlier, but then Spot came over and made me a sandwich.”

“Did you eat it?”

“Half.” He nodded.

Mr. Higgins pressed his lips together. “Is that all you’ve eaten today?”

Race shrugged again. “I was asleep most of the day...”

“Well, that won’t do.” Mr. Higgins patted Race’s knee. “What do you want? Anything. We can go somewhere—”

“I’m not hungry, Dad,” Race interrupted quietly.

Mr. Higgins sighed. “Well, okay, bud. You just let me know when you are.”

“Thanks, Dad.”


	54. The Blue Danube

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as “I Love You, so Let’s Fight About Something Else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warning for mentions of suicide.

“So do you guys have any fun plans for over break?” Race asked, leaning his crossed arms on the table in the cafeteria.

“Yeah.” Jack nodded casually. “Bang David Jacobs if it’s the last thing I do.”

Spot scoffed. “Happy birthday, Jesus.”

“He’s Jewish; he doesn’t care about Jesus,” Jack shot back, taking a slurp of the Capri-Sun Albert had provided him.

“Oh, well in that case, it’s fine, then,” Race snickered.

“I think I’m doing Christmas Eve, like, a day early with my mom, then going to my dad’s house for the day,” Albert said.

“Hmm,” Race rested his chin on his folded arms. “I keep trying to convince my folks to divorce for the winter so I can have two Christmases, but they haven’t gone for it yet.

Albert rolled his eyes. “Dickhead.”

“What about you, Spot?” Jack asked.

Spot groaned, slumping back in his chair. “Family’s making me go home.”

Race looked over at him in surprise. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Spot dragged his fingers through his hair. “Don’t really have an excuse not to, so.”

Race didn’t like that at all. “Well, shit.”

Spot shrugged. “S’just two weeks...” They way he said it sounded very rehearsed.

Race frowned, but didn’t have a chance to answer before Albert spoke up. “Think of it as a free trial period for when you guys go to different colleges.”

“I’m not going to college,” Spot replied, almost like a reflex, poking at his food with a plastic fork.

It occurred to Race in that moment that they’d never really talked about their plans for the future.

“Oh, trade school?” Jack asked, and Race was surprised he took any sort of interest.

Spot shook his head. “Military.”

Race—who had taken a drink from his water bottle—choked. “Wait,  _ what? _ ”

Spot looked at him. “I’m going into the military, after high school,” he said, like this was something that happened every day.

“Wh— Has this always been the plan, or...?”

“For a while, yeah.”

“Oh...cool.” It definitely wasn’t cool, but Race wasn’t about to make it a whole thing in the middle of the school cafeteria. He would make it a whole thing later, in private, on a balcony or something for dramatic effect. He just couldn’t believe Spot hadn’t  _ told _ him. Sure they’d only been together for three weeks, and sort of wanted to kill each other before that, but  _ still _ . And now, Spot, Jack, and Albert were just going about their lunches, like nothing was wrong. He took a bite of his school cafeteria spaghetti, more to keep himself from starting anything rather than any real desire to eat.

“I’m hoping to go to art school,” Jack said. “I’ve already been accepted to a few.”

“What about the one in New Mexico?” Albert asked.

“Haven’t heard back, yet.”

“I thought it was in Santa Fe?” Race frowned.

“Santa Fe is in New Mexico, dumb shit.” Albert replied.

“New Mexico, huh?” Spot mused. “What’ll you do without your cute Jewish boy?”

Well that certainly wiped the smile off Jack’s face.

Albert rolled his eyes heavily. “Oh,  _ come on _ , you are not gonna give up on your dream school for some guy you aren’t even dating.”

“Wh— I just said I haven’t heard back yet!”

“Then, if you  _ do _ get accepted, you are  _ not _ —”

Race tuned out their nonsense.

Spot in the military… Honestly, it made sense, it wasn’t that hard to picture, and that left Race somewhere between sad, worried, scared, and angry.

Spot nudged him with his elbow, and Race looked over at him, raising his eyebrows a bit.

“Y’look kinda sick, baby,” Spot said.

“Y’mean sick like cool? Cause yeah,” Race deflected badly.

The corners of Spot’s mouth twitched up in a sad semblance of a smile, and he put his arms around Race’s back, probably chalking it up to the depression. That was one benefit of heavy mental illness, it was easier to play shit off, if people believed you.

* * *

After school, Race felt even more restless and unhappy than what had become the new normal. He got a third of the way through his homework and just couldn’t focus, so he texted Spot.

“ _ Can I come over? _ ”

Spot replied within the minute. “ _ Want me to come get you? _ ”

As much as he hated driving, Race actually preferred it to being a passenger. At least that way, if they hit something, he was at fault, as opposed to being a hapless victim. He texted back, “ _ Nah I’ll just drive _ ”

* * *

Race knocked on the door to aunt Beth’s house in the pattern of a very specific classical piece of music that this author can’t remember the name of and CAN’T GOOGLE CAUSE THERE’S NO LYRICS. (After 20 minutes of searching, we discovered that it is The Blue Danube) Spot must have been waiting for him, because the door was open almost as soon as he knocked.

Race narrowly avoided knocking on his face as the door was removed. “Oh shit, hi.”

“Hey.” Spot stepped out of the way to let him inside.

“How’s it goin’?” Race asked, following him into the house.

“Fine. You?” Spot led him into the living room and sat down on the couch, twisting sideways and leaning his elbow on the back to look at Race.

Race shrugged, kicking his shoes into the corner by the door and shedding his hoodie. “I’m alive.”

“That’s...” Spot frowned. “Better than not, I guess.”

Race nodded, crossing to join him on the couch. “Most people think so, yeah.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that.” Spot grabbed one of Race’s hands.

Race frowned a bit. “What, why?”

“Like you ain’t ‘most people’,” Spot said. “Say that shit enough, you’re gonna start to believe it.”

Race frowned more. “Nihilism is sorta my jam, babe.”

Spot sighed, turning forward on the couch and leaning his head back. “Hey, Tony, I want to die.”

Race’s frown deepened, creased with a mix of concern and skepticism. “You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this a new thing, or—?”

Spot turned his head to look at him. “Feels pretty shitty, doesn’t it?”

Aaand there it was.

“More confusing and manipulative, but I guess that’s shitty, yeah.”

“Well, confusing and manipulative is sort of my jam, babe.”

Race scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he scooted back into the opposite corner of the couch. “Right, sure.”

“A’right.” Spot rolled his eyes. “What’s this about?”

“Well,  _ now _ apparently it’s about mental fuckin’ illness.”

“Was it not, before?”

“No, it wasn’t, but now we’re on this,” Race answered flatly, scowling. “So what’s your problem?”

Spot’s expression had gone stony. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Well, you coulda fooled me.”

“Why are you bein’ like this?”

“Like what?” Race snapped.

“Like you’re PMSing,” Spot snapped back, “which I’m pretty sure you’re not.”

Race laughed harshly. “Like I’m PMSing? Really? Well excuse the fuck outta me for defending the legitimacy of my medical condition.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Spot sputtered. “You don’t have to defend anything to me!”

“Then what the fuck were you on about, like, a minute ago? I’m sorry if my  _ mental disorder _ makes you feel shitty but that’s not—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Race, that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Alright, then what  _ did _ you mean?”

“Like I  _ said _ ,” Spot huffed, “you shouldn’t talk like that, like you want to die.”

Race threw his hands up in exasperation. “Sean, if I  _ actively _ wanted to die, like if I was gonna do anything about it, you wouldn’t know about it till it was too late.”

Spot’s eyes widened, and he fell completely silent. Race let out a rough exhale, crossing his arms again and pushing himself further into the corner of the couch. He dropped his gaze, glaring at the floor now.

“Tony, you can’t just  _ say _ that.” Spot’s voice was quieter now, but still firm.

“The fuck does  _ that _ mean?” Race huffed.

“You can’t just say that and leave it there.”

He sputtered. “What do you mean ‘leave it there’?”

“You just told me that there’s nothing I can do if you want to kill yourself, and I’m just supposed to be okay with it? Jesus Christ.” Spot rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, dragging his hands down his face until they came together in front of him.

“Wh— No, I didn’t mean—” Race’s voice softened with his expression. “I’m not gonna kill myself...”

“But if you were, you wouldn’t tell me, right?”

He didn’t really know how to answer that, cause he was right. It’s not at all rare to hear that the family and friends of someone who’s killed themselves ‘had no idea’ or ‘didn’t see it coming’. Oftentimes, the people that tell others about their depression or suicidal ideation are the ones looking for help, not the ones planning to act on it.

Spot huffed bitterly, pushing himself up off the couch and pacing towards the kitchen. It felt to Race very much like the motivation for this move was to get away from him.

“Why are you here, Anthony? Besides to ruin my afternoon?”

Race stood as well, but didn’t follow him. “Well, I wanted to see you, but I guess that was a bad call on my part.”

“Bullshit.” Spot shot back. “Who’s manipulative, now?”

“So first I’m not allowed to talk about my depression, and now I’m not allowed to want to see my own boyfriend?” He scoffed. “Guess that fits with today’s theme.”

“Oh, and what’s today’s theme? Putting words in Sean’s mouth?”

Race ignored him as he continued. “Were you planning to tell me you’re gonna ship out and get yourself killed on the other side of the planet come summertime, or was that supposed to just be a fun little surprise for later?”

Spot laughed furiously. “Is  _ that _ what this is about?”

“Of fucking course that’s what this is about!”

“Look, I didn’t realize you didn’t know. I guess it never came up, and I didn’t think about it.”

“You  _ didn’t think about _ how in five months you’ll just be  _ gone? _ ” And suddenly there were tears in Race’s eyes.

Spot faltered. “Tony—”

Well shit, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Race brushed the tears away furiously. “It’s fine. What right do I have to know, anyway? We’ve only been together three weeks.” He scoffed in an attempt to distract from the quickly returning tears. “It’s not like it’ll matter. We probably won’t last that long, anyway.”

Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm and the other brushing the tears off his cheek.

“Why not?”

“Whaddayou mean ‘why not’?” he answered through a sniffle, trying very hard to stop crying and not at all succeeding.

“Why aren’t we gonna last that long?”

“Because!” Race replied uselessly. He was a lot more upset about this than he’d realized.

Spot sighed heavily, leaning his forehead against Race’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby. I fucked up. I shouldn’t’a yelled at you.”

Race took a shuddering breath, feeling silly and a bit embarrassed, but mostly just upset—upset that Spot was going to go away, upset that Spot hadn’t  _ told _ him he was going to go away, upset that ‘away’ was undoubtedly somewhere dangerous and maybe Spot wouldn’t ever come back. Upset that Spot was going home for Christmas and again hadn’t told him, upset that it seemed he understood Race’s mental state a good bit less than Race thought. Upset that they were fighting—were they fighting? It felt like a fight. Maybe they were just arguing.

“Come on,” Spot took his hand and pulled him back towards the couch.

Race followed, sitting down and again brushing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Hey...” Spot pulled the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand to dry Race’s tears off his cheeks. “Talk to me.”

“I like you, okay?” he replied thickly. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, yet.”

“Yes, you are!” Race protested. “You’re gonna leave for Christmas, and then you’re gonna leave forever!”

“Not forever,” Spot assured him, reaching to pull Race into his lap.

Race went willingly. “Might as well be.”

Spot said nothing, just held him against his chest.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Race mumbled again.

“I’m right here,” Spot said softly. “You’re not alone.”

Race shifted around so he was facing Spot properly, still in his lap, and buried his face in the crook of his neck. Spot wrapped his arms around him and rubbed his back.

“‘M sorry,” Race said quietly, voice muffled against Spot’s skin.

“Shh. You’re okay.”

“No, I’m not,” he grumbled.

Spot tightened his hold on him and leaned his head on his shoulder. For a while, they just stayed like that, Race koala-ed against Spot’s chest and Spot holding him tight. Maybe they could stay that way forever. Spot couldn’t very well leave if Race wouldn’t get up. Or, at the very least, he would have to take Race with him, like a loud, bipolar backpack. Maybe then, with the extra handicap, he’d fail basic training and be sent back home, where he’d be safe—well, safe as long as he was sent back to Beth’s, not  _ home _ . Of course, at that point, he’d be an adulty adult anyway. He could get his own place, or go to college like a normal person. Maybe, he’d want to get a place with Race...it’s cheaper to have a roommate, anyway. Maybe, they could both take a gap year, then go to the same college, then move in together and get married and adopt some dogs, or Spot could do some trade school or something if he didn’t want college. Lots of people did something other than college, without going into the military and dying. All Race knew was that he couldn’t lose Spot. He couldn’t let Spot die.

* * *

Jack Kelly, Albert DaSomethingorother

Spot: Race told me today that if he decides to kill himself I won’t know until it’s too late

Spot: ngl he’s freaking me out guys what do I do?

Jack: Believe it or not, he meant that to be comforting

Albert: Yeah, you get used to it

Spot: How the fuck would that be comforting?

Albert: Well he’s being a needy, dramatic little shit, right? Answering “how r u” with “not dead yet but here’s hoping” and shit

Jack: Yeah, he IS telling you about it, which means he DOESNT plan to go through with it.

Spot: So what you’re telling me is that as long as he’s acting miserable I don’t have to worry

Jack: Well no, you always have to worry with that dumbass, he’s a hazard to his own health, whether he means it or not

Albert: Yeah, the kid’s a fucking full time job

Jack: But he isn’t properly suicidal. Like he won’t try anything. He might flat out forget to eat and accidentally starve himself

Albert: or be too tired to shower to the point that he melts into some toxic puddle of sludge

Jack: but he won’t do anything on purpose

Spot: I’m gonna lose my fucking mind. Okay

Albert: Yeah, just let us know when you decide you’re gonna dump him, so we can get a jumpstart on the fallout.

Spot: Hey fuck you man

Jack: Jesus Christ you two are exhausting 

Albert: What? I’m just saying it’ll be better if we’re prepared

Spot: There’s nothing to prepare for.

Spot: You’re wasting your time.

Albert: whatever you say, I guess we’ll just leave the deadline for graduation

Jack: for fucks sake

* * *

With a huff, Spot tossed his phone down to the foot of his bed. Race had left about ten minutes earlier, and he didn’t feel very good about it. First of all, Race was upset, and Spot probably shouldn’t have let him leave by himself, but what could he do? Hold him hostage? Second, he may not have put a deadline on him and Race, but it sounded like Race had. If Ethan couldn’t deal with Spot moving up to New York, how could Spot expect Race to deal with him shipping out to god knows where? Maybe Albert had the right idea. Maybe it would be better to end this thing before it got too out of hand, to try to contain the fallout. He didn’t want to break Race’s heart. That was, like, the opposite of his intention, but maybe it was inevitable, at this point. Spot didn’t know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re currently rewriting the next chapter of The Torrid Affair of Kack Jelly and Kosher Dave from Manhattan for the millionth time, so that’ll probably be out eventually. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	55. Somewheee Over the Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Spot work on their project one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just took my last college class EVER. Now I just have, like, a million final projects...

“Do you want to do the first part or the second part?” Spot asked. “Or we can, like, trade off.”

Race shrugged. “It’s your baby; you can pick, I don’t really care.”

They were seated side by side at the Higginses’ dining room table, planning their presentation for the next day. Truth be told, Spot hadn’t even looked at their project in weeks. They had knocked it out so early…

Remembering the first day of class, Spot couldn’t help but laugh.

Race looked up from his laptop and over at Spot curiously. “What?”

“I was just thinking about when Mrs. McNamera was assigning partners and she said ‘Anthony Higgins and Sean Conlon’.”

Race snorted, amused. “Yeah, you were about the last thing I expected.”

“I distinctly remember,” Spot began, grinning, “hearing your name and thinking, ‘Oh, fuck’, then hearing my name and thinking, ‘ _ Oh, fuck _ ’, louder.”

Race laughed. “I’m pretty sure I just short circuited. I don’t remember really managing to think much of anything.”

Spot shook his head. That was four months ago, but it felt like a whole hell of a lot longer.

“Time sure flies, huh?” Race said.

Spot smirked. “Read my mind, baby.”

“I’m good at that, sometimes.”

Spot hummed, leaning over to press a kiss to the corner of Race’s mouth, but Race turned his head at the last moment so their lips met fully instead.

Spot laughed, rolling his eyes. “Slut,” he teased, then kissed him again.

“Only for you.” Race grinned, then held one finger up as if to stop Spot, even though he hadn’t said anything. “That’s a lie. I’m just a slut in general.”

Spot grunted indignantly, frowning. “Not anymore you’re fuckin’ not.”

“Well yeah, I’m a slut, not a whore.” Race scrunched his brow up contemplatively. “Though I’d probably be a really good whore, or sugar baby, or whatever.”

Spot turned back to his notebook, grumbling nonsense.

“Do you disagree?” Race asked, shifting closer, so he could be more annoying.

“Yeah,” Spot snapped, not looking at him.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Race sighed, slouching back in his chair. “You don’t have the funding to afford me, anyway.” He reached up to absently fuss with the curls flopped over his forehead. “Plus, you’re too short for me to call you ‘daddy’.”

Successfully annoyed, Spot grabbed the back of Race’s neck and pulled him closer, leaning in to hiss quietly in his ear, “You’re mine, and if your parents weren’t home, I would bend you over this table and remind you of that. And  _ don’t _ call me ‘daddy’.”

Race’s eyes had widened a tiny bit in surprise, and his cheeks flushed slightly as he failed to otherwise answer, and Spot was pleased by his—albeit very rare—ability to silence the noisiest motherfucker on the planet.

“So,” Spot returned his attention to his notebook, “how about we trade off? You take the intro and the section on adoption, since, you know.” Spot gestured at Race. “I’ll take the part about brood parasitism and the conclusion.”

“Uh.” Race blinked and swallowed, licking his lips briefly as he tried to reset himself. “Right, yeah, sure, that sounds fine.”

Spot bit back a laugh. He hadn’t exactly meant to go all Christian Grey on Race like that, but he might have to do it again if it got him all cute and flustered.

Race cleared his throat shortly, looking back to his laptop and fussing with his hair again. “We’re presenting Thursday, right?”

“Right. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, yeah.” Race scrolled quickly through the document, frowning and clearly trying very hard to focus on the work at hand, rather than the boy next to him. “Wait—do we have to memorize our presentation stuff, or can we use like, notes and shit?”

“I think we can use notes. We should practice, though—make sure it fits in ten minutes.”

“Right.” Race reached for his phone. “I can time us, I guess.”

They spent the next couple hours rehearsing their bits, smoothing out transitions and writing a rough script. They even did it for Race’s parents once, and Spot figured if he could do it in front of them, he could do it in front of the class, no problem. It was midnight by the time they called it a night, and Spot was dead on his feet.

“I should be getting back to Beth’s house,” he yawned, going to cram his notebook back into his backpack and missing the opening like a drunk.

Race shook his head. “You’re gonna fall asleep.”

“I’ll be fine,” Spot said, finally managing to get his notebook back into his bag and zip it up. Race just stared at him flatly as he stood up and pulled his backpack onto one shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Race shook his head again. “It’s late; just stay.”

Spot scoffed. “Yeah, sure. Lemme just get murdered in my sleep by your dad.”

“He’ll be fine with it,” Race replied, sounding surprisingly confident.

“No, he won’t, baby.” Spot dropped a kiss onto his head and started towards the entry. “I’ll text you when I get home, a’right?”

Race reached out and caught ahold of his arm, stopping him before he could make it more than a few steps. “Please?”

“Baby—”

“I don’t want you driving when you’re this tired,” Race interrupted.

Oh. That made sense, and now Spot felt like a total piece of shit. He sighed. “I don’t have pajamas or my toothbrush or anything.”

“I have extra pajamas, and my mom is, well, a mom, so she probably has, like, five extra unopened toothbrushes somewheee.” (We laughed really hard at this typo, so it got to stay)

“Well...” Spot shrugged. “If you want to wake her up and ask, I guess...”

“I mean, they’re probably just in some drawer in the bathroom or the closet or something.” Race stood up and started for the stairs, still holding Spot’s arm.

“Baby,” Spot protested, “I’m not sleeping over if you don’t tell your parents.”

Race sighed. “Alright, hang on.” He let go and changed course, heading further down the hall towards his parents room instead.

Spot groaned and leaned against the wall. He had to admit, Race was right. He was dead tired; he shouldn’t be driving.

The house was quiet, so it was easy to hear the hushed conversation between Race and Mr. Higgins.

“We just got done working, can Spot stay over?”

Mr. Higgins sighed. “I dunno, bud—”

“Dad, it’s late, and he’s real tired.” Race interrupted.

Mr. Higgins sighed again, a bit heavier. “Alright, there’s fresh sheets and what not in the hall closet, for the guest bedroom.”

Spot was a bit surprised by how easily he gave in. He could hear a slightly more distant murmuring that he assumed to be a sleepy Mrs. Higgins, and then Mr. Higgins spoke again, presumably repeating what she’d said.

“And there’s an extra toothbrush in the drawer in the upstairs bathroom.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Race came back down the hall, smiling. “See? It’s fine.”

Spot smiled back. “Yeah. Thanks, gorgeous.”

Race took his hand and started for the stairs again with a quiet snicker. “Come on—let’s get you out of your pants and into mine.”

Spot went willingly as Race led him upstairs to his bedroom. This was only the third time Spot had really been in Race’s room—not counting the time he passed through on his way downstairs after climbing in the window—and wow, it was a mess. The bed was unmade, and a pile of clothes stuck halfway out of the open closet door. There were a few cups and dishes scattered around, forgotten here and there, and the little trash can next to the desk was filled to overflowing. The laundry hamper next to the dresser was overloaded as well, and the top of the dresser was awash with more clothes, school supplies, and god knows what else.

“Where’s the clean pile?” Race muttered to himself, looking around before zeroing in on the pile of clothes on top of his dresser. He dug around for a moment before pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a graphic T-shirt from some sort of dance event. He passed them to Spot, then continued digging for his own pair of pajamas while Spot changed. Before heading back downstairs, Race grabbed one of the blankets off his bed and draped it over his shoulder like a very badly fitted toga, nearly tripping on the hem at the top of the stairs. Spot grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

“Fuckin’ saving my life again,” Race mumbled, pulling his arm away so he could take Spot’s hand instead.

“Yeah,” Spot chuckled sleepily. “Watch you survive gettin’ hit by a truck and gettin’ stabbed just to die falling down the stairs.”

Race nodded. “Sounds about right.”

He very nearly tripped again at the bottom of the stairs. Spot chuckled again and let go of his hand to sling an arm around his waist.

“Better watch out, I’ll take us both down,” Race warned.

“You forget that I can carry you.”

“Fuckin’ prove it,” he retorted, suddenly pitching his full weight sideways against Spot, and Spot caught him, because he weighed about as much as an uncooked spaghetti noodle. “...Okay, yeah, I guess that’s true.”

“Told you.” Spot pushed Race back onto his own feet, and they made their way into the guest bedroom, stopping by the hall closet on the way to grab sheets and pillows and such.

“My mom’s a witch, so I can never tell which one is the fitted sheet,” Race explained, unfolding both of the sheets to search for elastic corners.

Spot nodded, too tired to think of much to say, but silently agreeing that only a witch could fold a fitted sheet that well.

“It’s this one,” Race said unnecessarily, brandishing a handful of fabric.

Spot nodded again. “Congratulations.”

Making a bed is harder than it should be at the best of times. It's even harder when it’s past midnight and you’re very tired, and it’s even  _ harder  _ when an equally tired Anthony ‘Racetrack’ Higgins is trying to help you. It took probably twenty minutes, half of which was spent trying to get the fitted sheet on.

“This is why I’ll never be a housewife,” Race sighed, collapsing onto the bed once it was finally done.

Spot climbed under the sheets and comforter, and maybe it was because of how tired he was, but damn, it felt a lot comfier than his bed at Aunt Beth’s. “And here I thought it was because you have a dick.”

“No, wives can have dicks if they want to,” Race replied, rolling further onto the bed, but not bothering to properly get in.

“Hm,” Spot grunted. ‘You know what I mean’ was, albeit poorly, implied.

Race didn’t answer, just rolling over again until his back was pressed up against Spot’s side.

Spot turned his head towards him. “You should go to bed,” he said, much more like a fact than an actual suggestion.

“‘M in a bed,” Race pointed out.

“Y’parents...”

“Are asleep, so shuttup.”

Spot sighed and rolled onto his side, laying his arm over Race’s middle. Race let out a slow, tired sigh, wiggling back closer against Spot, and Spot found his hand, lacing their fingers together. It was surprisingly comfortable, despite Spot having no business being the big spoon in this relationship. Things had been so tense with Race’s illness, and Spot hadn’t realized how comforting it would be to have Race there, in his arms, as he fell asleep.

* * *

Before he fell asleep, Race was careful to set an alarm for a good hour and a half earlier than usual. Although no one had specifically  _ said  _ the point of putting Spot in the guest bedroom was separation, rather than hospitality, it was fairly well implied, and Race wanted to be sure he was awake and back in his room before his father was up.

His alarm went off at five forty-five—about half an hour before his dad usually got up—and he groaned, rolling over to press his face into the pillow.

Spot groaned as well. “Wh’t’fuck?”

Race groaned again in response. “Donwannagetup.”

“What fucking time is it?”

“Early,” Race whined.

Spot grunted and rolled over, apparently going back to sleep.

For a moment, Race just lay there, listening to Spot’s breathing even back out and enjoying his nearness. They weren’t quite touching, but still close enough that Race could feel he was there, even though he wasn’t looking at him. He was surprised by how happy he was, just knowing Spot was there.

Race had always been an immensely tactile person; he needed to touch and to be touched. In the early years of living with the Higginses, when he had nightmares, he would go downstairs and crawl into bed with his parents, sandwich himself between them, and if one of them rolled away, he would wake up again. Even as he grew older, mere presence was never enough to properly calm him down. He could hardly ever get to sleep in the first place, if he didn’t have some imitation of company—a few extra pillows and a microwavable bean bag were at least solid enough comfort to get through most regular nights.

Being around Spot felt different, somehow more secure. Of course, Race was hardly in any position to talk about just nearness being enough, considering they were sharing a bed, and if Race rolled even halfway over he’d be on top of Spot—which is precisely what he would’ve done, if his alarm hadn’t gone off again. Instead, he groaned and rolled the other way, out of bed. He headed out into the hall, shutting the door quietly behind him before he tiptoed upstairs and flopped into his own bed. Only two past six—he could sleep for about another hour and still be up in plenty of time for school.

* * *

Spot’s alarm went off at six forty-five. He hit the snooze button and rolled over to bury his face in the pillow. What were he and Race thinking, staying up so late? Now they would be giving their presentation exhausted. He heard some action in another part of the house, probably the kitchen, so he forced himself up. He changed back into his jeans from the day before—he probably would have worn them again anyway—and he could probably borrow a shirt from Race. He grabbed his backpack and cautiously made his way to the kitchen, where he found Mr. and Mrs. Higgins making breakfast. He had hoped Race would be up, but no such luck.

“Good morning, Sean,” Mrs. Higgins greeted him as she was pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Mrs. Higgins.” He cringed. This was awkward. “Um...thanks for letting me crash here, last night.”

“Of course,” she repliedx “I hope you were comfortable?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll, uh...” He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt—or, rather, Race’s shirt that he was wearing. “I’ll get outta your hair an’ just...bring Tony ‘is shirt back, later, I guess.”

“Oh, you two aren’t going to ride in to school together?”

“Oh,” Spot said, like an absolute idiot. “I mean, sure, I just figured...”  _ You’d want me gone as soon as possible _ .

“He’ll be down in a few minutes,” Mrs. Higgins continued. “We have toast, cereal, Pop-Tarts.” she gestured vaguely towards the fridge and the pantry.

Spot nodded and headed for the pantry to grab a Pop-Tart.

Mr. Higgins was sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee and a slice of peanut butter toast. “‘Morning, Sean.”

“Good morning, Mr. Higgins,” Spot said quietly, averting his gaze submissively.

“Sleep well?” Mr. Higgins asked—how could such a simple pleasantry sound like a threat?

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded and went back to his toast.

About ten horribly uncomfortable minutes later, movement could be heard from upstairs, and Mr. Higgins glanced upwards. “It’s alive,” he chuckled, and Mrs. Higgins rolled her eyes fondly.

Shortly thereafter, Race made his way into the kitchen, clearly still not quite awake. Spot offered him an awkward smile that he wasn’t even sure if Race saw, because his eyes were mostly closed.

“Morning bud,” Mr. Higgins said, and Race answered with something that was more of a moo than actual words as he plodded across the kitchen, aiming straight for Spot.

“Hey, Race,” Spot greeted him, smiling more genuinely now.

He mooed again, stopping directly in front of Spot and leaning heavily into his shoulder.

Spot snickered, placing his hand on the back of Race’s head.

Mrs. Higgins actually cast a small smile their way. “Do you want breakfast, Tony?” she asked, and Race shook his head.

“You should eat breakfast,” Spot told him.

“Mnothungry”

“If I give you my second Pop-Tart, will you take it and eat it when you’re hungry?”

Seemingly too tired to argue, Race nodded.

Spot handed over the foil package, ruffling Race’s hair gently.

Race accepted it and pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans, and Spot noticed Mr. and Mrs. Higgins exchange a quick look. He hoped that was a good thing.


	56. The L Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love” (not “lesbians”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals week is hell, my mental health is tanking, but I remembered to take my meds this morning for the first time in, like, a week so things are looking UP.
> 
> Still reading all your comments, even when I’m too dumb to reply. Love you bbs. <3

“Your presentation yesterday was very good,” Mrs. McNamera said as she accepted Spot and Race’s final paper. “I have no doubt your paper will be very good, as well.”

“Thanks Mrs. McNamera, glad you enjoyed it,” Race said, smiling.

She smiled back, knowingly. “I’m glad you boys were able to settle your differences.”

Spot snickered, grabbing Race’s hand, and Race grinned. “Oh yeah, for sure. Honestly, we owe you one.”

“You owe a random generator I found on Google,” Mrs. McNamera laughed. “Have a great winter break, boys. I’ll see you in January.”

With another little smile and wave, they headed for the cafeteria, and Race groaned. “Why does the last day of school always last like twelve times as long as a normal day?”

“Because time is an illusion, and nothing is real but your subjective experience,” Spot deadpanned.

Race nodded sagely. “I’m the center of the universe.”

Albert jogged up next to them, having turned in his paper after them. “Well,” he said, “I survived the first semester of AP Biology, and I don’t even think I failed.”

“See? Didn’t I tell you?” Race answered smugly.

Albert just smacked him on the back of the head.

Race whined loudly. “What was that for?”

“Being a dick.”

“I’m always a dick!”

That’s when Jack came careening down the hallway, nearly sliding—“Dude, the fuck, are you wearing Heelies?”—into Albert. “I asked him out. Guys, I asked him out and he said  _ yes! _ ”

“Holy shit!” Race squealed, very nearly slapping Jack in his excited flail.

Jack proceeded to lay down on the floor in the middle of the hallway, receiving lots of concerned and irritated stares from passing classmates as he announced, “We’re going to see the new Star Wars movie after school, and this is the single most important event of my life.”

Albert kicked him in the ribs. “Get up, dumbass.”

“Fuck you, I’m basking in my success.”

“You’re almost basking in some gum,” Spot pointed out, and Race snickered.

“Oh, ew...” Jack mumbled, climbing to his feet and almost slipping on the wheels in his shoes.

“Where the hell did you even  _ get _ those?” Albert asked, looking in baffled distaste at his shoes. “They don’t make Heelies in adult sizes anymore.”

“Goodwill.”

“Lucky bastard,” Race grumbled.

“Hey, don’t get any ideas.” Spot squeezed his hand. “Can’t have you crackin’ your pretty head open, while I’m gone.”

Race pouted. “I would be a  _ god _ on Heelies.”

“You’d be dead on Heelies,” Albert scoffed. “For once, I agree with your walking sex toy.”

“Aw, Red, if you want my dick that bad, I’m sure Racer will share,” Spot teased.

“Besides, everyone knows  _ I’m _ the toy.” Race pointed out, ignoring how clearly Albert wanted to punch Spot.

Spot bumped Race with his shoulder. “Exactly, and I don’t want my toy getting broken.”

Race smiled. Despite Albert’s blatant disgust, he  _ liked _ when Spot talked like that. Objectification gets a bad rap, but when done right, it can be wonderful. Race liked being a ‘thing’, Spot’s ‘thing’, specifically. He liked knowing that Spot thought of him as something to be kept and valued, something worth claiming ownership of. Of course, it probably didn’t actually go that deep. Spot was probably just playing, but even so, Race thoroughly enjoyed this game.

“Well,” Jack went rolling down the hallway ahead of them, “I don’t know about you all, but I am ready to have a break from cafeteria food. Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

“It’s not fair,” Race whined. “How am I supposed to give you your present when you’re hundreds of miles away?”

“There’s this thing called mail,” Spot explained, folding his clothes to put in his suitcase. Race was supposed to be helping, but instead he was wallowing in self-pity on Spot’s bed.

“That’s no fun.” Race pouted. “I don’t wanna  _ mail _ you stuff.”

“Then wait until I get back. It’s not that hard.”

“Then that’s not Christmas,” Race grumbled.

Spot walked over to the bed to give his pouty boyfriend a kiss. “That just means Christmas gets to last a little longer, baby.”

“Everyone knows Christmas is from November twenty-ninth to December thirtieth. Don’t be dumb.”

“Well, it’s that or mailing.” Spot gave Race another quick kiss before returning to his closet. Thank God he wasn’t in a time crunch.

“No come back,” Race whined.

Spot rolled his eyes, but obliged anyway, folding up his old football jersey in his arms as he went. As soon as he was within reach, Race grabbed his arm and started pulling, clearly aiming to drag him into the bed. Spot chuckled and flopped down next to him, and Race quickly scooted closer, wrapping both his arms and his legs around him.

“What if you’re gone too long and I forget who you are?”

Spot snorted at that. What a damn drama queen. “Well, then you won’t even care that I’m gone anymore, but I’d be pretty sad.”

“What, you wouldn’t even try to remind me?” Race huffed. “Geez, guess that shows how much  _ you _ care.”

“There’s no winning with you, is there?”

“Depends on what the game is.”

“Oh yeah?” Spot ran his hand up Race’s side, under his shirt, and leaned in to brush his lips against the tip of Race’s nose as he spoke. “What about this one?”

The barest flush colored Race’s cheeks, and a little smile lit up his face. “I think I win this one.”

Spot smiled back, gently capturing Race’s lips, and Race responded quickly, winding his fingers into the hem of Spot’s T-shirt as he kissed back. Spot wrestled Race’s shirt off him and let his hands roam Race’s soft skin, memorizing every inch to remember while he was gone. He was going to miss this boy. Race shivered as Spot’s hands trailed over his skin, and he moved his own to cup Spot’s jaw, pulling him in for another kiss.

“You’re so pretty,” Spot murmured against his lips, not even caring if Race made fun of him for being ‘soft’ and ‘lovey’. “Your fucking face.” He kissed Race’s cheek. “Your body...” He ducked his head down to kiss Race’s shoulder.

“Is that it?” Race asked.

“No. All a’ you’s pretty, and you know it.”

“No, I know, I mean is that why you like me?”

“‘Course not.” Spot pulled back to look him in the eye, placing a hand on his cheek and brushing his thumb over his lips. He didn’t like Race feeling insecure. “You’re smart and funny. I’ve told you before.”

“Lots of people are smart and funny,” Race argued, sitting up part way, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Well, sure, but they’re not you,” Spot said.

Race didn’t look content with this answer.

“What’s this about, hm?” Spot reached up and stroked Race’s arm. “We keep comin’ back to this.”

Race shrugged, suddenly avoiding his eyes. “I just wanna know how you feel about me.”

Spot frowned, sitting up and reaching out to pull him closer. “Tony, I think you’re great. I really care about you.”

Race was quiet for a second, clearly thinking hard before he answered. “If I say something dumb, d’you promise not to laugh at me?”

“Depends. We talking ‘are mermaids made of fish or red meat’ dumb, or...?”

“No, not like that.” His lack of response to Spot’s gibe meant whatever this was must be weighing pretty heavily on his mind.

“Then I promise I won’t laugh.”

“I—...” Race frowned at the floor, twisting his fingers restlessly in the comforter, and when he finally got his sentence properly going, it all came out in a rush. “Spot, I think I love you, but I’m also not really even sure what that means.”

Spot felt like he’d just been struck by lightning or defibrillated or something. The ‘L’ word was the  _ last _ thing he had been expecting, but there it was, and now his heart was beating fast enough to beat the devil, and Race looked like he was about to throw up.

“You don’t have to say it back or anything,” Race assured him nervously. “I know we’ve only been a thing for a few weeks, and before that we hated each other for years or whatever, so like, it’s no big deal. I don’t really even know if I do or not, you just feel different, and I was just thinking, so I just...” He trailed off uncomfortably.

Spot finally shook the shock off and replied. “It’s okay. You don’t have to know.”

Race screwed his face up unhappily. “I shouldn’t’a said anything.”

“Why not?” Spot sat up the rest of the way, leaning in to try and meet Race’s eyes.

“‘Cause now it’s all weird, and I don’t even know what I’m talking about.” He gestured vaguely towards Spot, continuing in a grumble. “An’ you’re about to leave, so you’ll have a few weeks to think about what a nut I am without even being distracted by how pretty I am.”

Spot snorted. “Nothing, not even how damn pretty you are, could ever distract me from what a nut you are.” He booped Race’s nose. “Besides, I ain’t plannin’ on forgetting what you look like.”

Race huffed lightly. “Well yeah, I’m way too pretty for you to forget that easy.”

“So don’t worry about it.”

Race sat up the rest of the way and picked up Spot’s old football jersey, that had been dropped and forgotten when Race pulled him into the bed. His shirt had been discarded to the floor, but he seemed perfectly content to pull the jersey on, rather than bothering to look for his own. Spot smiled. It looked good on him, and there was something so wonderfully cliché about his boyfriend wearing his jersey. None of his boyfriends back in Philly had ever gotten to do that, because of his family. 

“Your old school’s colors are dumb,” Race said, looking down at the red and yellow (it was supposed to be gold, but it was yellow) jersey.

Spot chuckled. “If you think the colors are stupid, they misspelled my name on the back.”

Race tried and failed to look over his own shoulder, eventually giving up and pulling his arms in through the sleeves to turn the jersey around, frowning at the (from his vantage point) upside down letters. “‘Colon’,” He snorted, deeply amused.

“Yep, that’s me.” Spot grinned. “‘Spot Colon’.”

Race laughed. “Why does everyone call you ‘Spot’ anyway?”

The grin faltered. “You went to elementary with me...”

“Yeah? I was six, you expect me to remember literally anything from when I was six?”

Spot sighed heavily dragging his fingers through his hair. He didn’t want to talk about this. Race already knew more then he was supposed to, thanks to Spot’s big, stupid, drunk mouth. “Let’s just say my stepdad used to smoke, ‘kay?”

Race frowned. “What?”

“Don’t push it, baby.”

Of course, by this point, Spot should’ve known that things like ‘don’t push it’ or ‘we’ll talk about it later’ were trigger phrases to turn Race into an indiscourageable nagging machine.

“No, c’mon, I don’t get it,” Race said. “What’s the connection?”

“I  _ don’t _ wanna talk about it, Race!” Spot snapped, standing up. He had to pack, anyway. “Leave it alone.”

Race frowned again. “Fine, excuse me for asking a simple ass question.”

Spot sighed again, practically exhausted by the last sixty seconds. “Are you gonna help me pack?”

“No, I’m here to be a distraction,” Race replied, standing up as well and following Spot. “Gotta make sure you don’t forget about me while you’re gone, right?”

Spot chuckled and shook his head. “Baby, I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

“Exactly, that’s my point; if I were less annoying, I’d be more forgettable.”

Spot rolled his eyes and reached out for Race’s hand.

“Are you gonna be okay, back home?” Race asked, lacing their fingers together.

Spot nodded, looking into his closet instead of at Race, because he was lying. “Yeah.”

“I wish I could help.”

“Just...” Spot looked at him again. “Lay low, okay? As far as anyone in my family is concerned, we are just friends.”

“I know,” Race said, stepping closer and taking Spot’s other hand.

Spot sighed. “I’m sorry. I know it sucks.”

Race shrugged. “I mean, I’m not gonna be there, so like...” He shrugged again.

“Well, I’m gonna call you, stupid.” Spot brushed a stray curl away from Race’s forehead. “I’m not going radio silent.”

“You fuckin’ better not,” Race replied, shifting to brush a gentle kiss to Spot’s lips.

Spot smiled. He may not have made it to the ‘L’ word with Race yet, but he was getting there.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Race sighed.

“I’m gonna miss you too, gorgeous.”

“When are you coming back?” he asked, fidgeting with the hem of Spot’s shirt.

“The first weekend in January,” Spot told him. “Two weeks.”

“That’s so long,” he whined.

Spot quirked an eyebrow. Race definitely wanted him to make a dick joke there, so he didn’t.

Eventually, just as Spot knew he would, Race broke, and a tiny smile tugged at the edge of his mouth as he very clearly fought a shit-eating grin. “Y’know, speaking of things that are long—” He cut himself off, and there was a moment of silence.

“No, please continue,” Spot said.

Race rolled his eyes heavily. “You’re no fun.”

“Whaaat?”

“Just shut up and kiss me. You were supposed to kiss me so I’d stop talking.”

“Mmhm.” Spot leaned in. “What’s the magic word?”

“I’m gonna go with ‘hoyaaaaah’!”

The last word—if it can even be called a word—was more of a loud, breathy, obnoxious whine than anything else, and Spot tried, he really tried, to hold it together, but instead he collapsed, wheezing.

Race tossed his hands up in mock exasperation. “Some magic word; you just fell down!” He huffed, kneeling down to straddle Spot’s waist where he lay on the floor, grumbling as he went, “Gotta fuckin’ do everything myself around here,” and he stooped to kiss him.

Spot was still laughing, which made it a little messy, but it was good. It was so good. He propped himself up on one elbow and brought his other hand around to the back of Race’s neck. Race cupped Spot’s jaw in his hands, dragging his thumb across his jawline as he kissed him, and Spot let himself forget about everything else for a minute. Packing could wait. His parents could wait. For a minute, he just had Race.

And then the minute was over, and he heard his bedroom door open, followed by a quick, surprised,” Oh! Oh, sorry!” that to anyone else might’ve sounded like his Aunt Beth, but to Spot, sounded like his life ending.

He pulled away from Race. “Fuck.”

“Shit.” Race quickly tumbled backwards off of him.

Aunt Beth, looking shocked and a good bit flustered, quickly stepped back out of the room again, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” Spot repeated, practically launching himself to his feet and running into the hall after her. “ _ Please don’t tell my parents _ ,” he begged, the words leaving his mouth in a rush the instant before they even properly formed in his head. If his parents found out, he was well and truly dead, and Race—

Aunt Beth held her hands up, somewhere between assuring and claiming innocence. “It’s none of my business, Sean. I didn’t mean to intrude, I didn’t know—”

“Please.” His voice shook. Hell, all of him was shaking. He was in big trouble. “Beth, please, don’t tell them.”

She shook her head. “It’s not mine to tell, Sean.” She half chuckled, awkwardly, still clearly off balance. “I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. It’s not a big deal or anything—don’t take this the wrong way—you just don’t seem the type?”

Spot tried to take a deep breath. It didn’t go very smoothly. “Years of practice.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

“Beth, I’m sorry.” Spot shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

She shook her head, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sean, honey, you don’t need to be sorry.  _ I’m _ sorry. I’ll knock next time, I promise.”

He took another deep breath, more successfully this time, and nodded. “Do you need something? I didn’t hear you get home...”

She chuckled again. “I was gonna ask if you and Tony want to order pizza.”

“Oh.” Spot blinked a couple times, then called back towards his bedroom door. “Hey, Racer, you want pizza?”

The answer came a bit hesitantly. “Uhh, sure!”

“Sure,” Spot repeated to Beth, despite her definitely having heard him.

She nodded, pulling out her phone. “Alright, I’ll let you guys know when it’s here.”

“Thanks.” Spot turned to go back to his room, still feeling a little stiff and numb from the whole experience. He closed the door behind him and flipped face-first onto his bed. “Holy  _ shit _ .”

While Spot was in the hall, Race had moved to sit at Spot’s desk, one leg bent up to his chest with his hands clasped around his knee, the other leg curled under him. “You okay?” he asked nervously.

“Yeah,” Spot sighed, rolling over onto his back and dragging his fingers roughly through his hair. “Yeah, she’s cool. Holy shit.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Right, but for a second there I thought I was gonna get honor killed.”

Race nodded. “Yeah, that coulda been pretty bad...”

Spot sighed again. “I can’t fucking wait to get outta here, Race.”

Race got up, walking over to sit down on the bed next to Spot, running a hand gently across his shoulder. “I know I can’t really relate, so I don’t got nothin’ to say that won’t make me sound like a dick, but I gotcha.”

Spot reached out to pull him down into his arms. He needed to hold something. Race rolled into his arms willingly, curling up with his head pillowed against Spot’s chest, and Spot buried his face in Race’s hair. He breathed slowly and deeply, letting feeling seep back into his limbs after his minute of panic.

“I wonder if pizza is just, like, the universal positive reaction to your kid—or nephew or whatever—coming out,” Race mused.

“Did your parents get you pizza for coming out?”

He nodded. “Mom said something about how honesty is important, and she was glad I felt safe enough to tell them even though it was super obvious. I knew she’d be cool, but I was scared as hell about my dad.” He was quiet for a second before launching a hurried explanation. “I’m not trying to make it about me or say it’s the same or whatever, I know it’s not—”

“It’s okay,” Spot cut him off. “Hard to imagine your dad not accepting you, though.”

Race shrugged. “Well y’know, with the whole Jesus thing.”

“Ah.”

“It’s dumb, I know.”

“‘S not dumb.” Spot knew better than most that it was not dumb, but he really didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Can we just...lay here? I’m leaving tomorrow. I wanna hold you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Race answered quietly, draping one of his arms up across Spot’s chest and tracing absent patterns across his skin just under his ear.

Spot let his eyes fall closed and tried to relax. Going home was like going into battle, but at least he had Race to come back to when it was over.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Race said in a small, gentle voice that Spot hadn’t heard before. “Wanna know how I know?”

“How?” he asked skeptically.

“‘Cause I’m irritatingly lucky, and I’ve figured out how to share that luck.”

“Have you, now?”

He nodded. “You want some?”

“Sure. I’ll play.”

He tilted his head up, pushing off of Spot’s chest to get closer, and licked up the side of his face. Spot pressed his lips together in resignation. Of course.

Race giggled maniacally, cuddling back up to Spot’s side. Spot gave him a moment to settle in and get comfortable, then rolled over on top of hip, pinning him down and tickling him. He shrieked, laughing and flailing as he tried—not too hard—to knock Spot off. Spot continued until Race was thoroughly out of breath, then flopped down on top of him.

“You nasty little shit.”

Race giggled breathlessly. “Yeah, well, you deserve it.”

“Probably,” Spot agreed, grinning.

“It’s okay, though; I still like you.”

“I like you too, dumbass.”


	57. Dad Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Finch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot goes “home” for winter break, and Race has a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remembered to take my meds for the second day in a row. My depression is cured.
> 
> Anyway, We’ve gotten ahead of ourselves again, so expect some rapid-fire updates.

Spot hesitated at the stop sign at the corner of Birch and Bartlett until someone pulled up behind him, then begrudgingly continued to his house. He hadn’t exactly been in a great place with his parents before he left, and he didn’t know what he was walking into. He considered as he pulled into the driveway whether it was too late to turn around and drive back to New York. In the end, of course, he turned off his car and stepped out, going around to get his suitcase from the backseat. After taking a moment on the porch to steel himself for whatever was to come, Spot unlocked the door, and headed inside.

“I’m home,” he called, then scoffed quietly. _ Home _. This place hadn’t been that in a long time.

A moment later, Julie Young appeared in the entryway to greet him, beaming. “Hi, sweetie!”

He forced himself to smile. “Hey, Mom.”

She pulled him into a big, uncomfortable hug, and he gently reciprocated. He _ did _ love his mother, as rocky and tense as things were between them. She was still his mom, and he was still her baby, even when she didn’t put him first, even when she chose something else over him.

“I’m so glad you’re home!” she enthused, finally letting go.

Spot sighed. “S’good to see you, Mom.”

“Well come on, come in, get comfy.” She turned to call back further into the house. “Mark, Sean’s home!”

Ugh.

“I’ll just...” Spot gestured vaguely towards the stairs, “go put my stuff in my room.”

He felt like an outsider in his own house, which wasn’t anything new, but it felt more pronounced, after months away. At least, he soon discovered, his room didn’t look like it had been touched since he left, which he was thankful for. His room had always been his little bubble, his safe haven. With a sigh of relief, he closed the door behind him and laid down on his bed. Unpacking could happen later. It was almost dinner time anyway, and he knew he’d be expected to participate in his mom and Mark’s little ‘happy family’ charade.

His train of thought was bumped off the track by a ding from his phone. He dug it out of his pocket and held it up, promptly dropping it on his face. “Ow, fuck.” He picked it back up to see that Race had texted him—quite a few times actually. His phone had been on Do Not Disturb while he was driving.

_ “It’s been less than 12 hours and I already forgot what you look like” _

_ “jk I miss you” _

_ “are you driving?” _

_ “don’t read this if you’re driving” _

The next few were from about forty minutes later.

_ “are you driving the whole way without stopping?” _

_ “text me back oh my godddd” _

_ “for real tho be safe, don’t text and drive” _

_ “k text me when u get there” _

_ “I love u” _

“_ or I don’t, never mind, don’t read that one _”

Finally, the most recent text. “_ r we there yet? _”

Spot smiled as he typed back, “_ Just got here _”

“_ oh shit _ ” Another text followed immediately. “ _ I’m psychic _”

“_ You’re a dingus _”

“_ shut up I’m gonna drop out of school and go to Vegas and become a famous psychic _”

“_ Interesting. What am I doing right now? _”

The reply was immediate. “_ texting your super hot boyfriend, duh” _

_ Oh, I shouldn’t, _ Spot thought. _ I shouldn’t. I should not. _

_ “I’m texting you, actually.” _

“_ exactly. Score 1 for the hot psychic boyfriend. _”

Sailed right over his pretty little head. Probably for the best.

Before Spot could type a reply, his bedroom door opened, and in walked the devil himself, dressed like a suburban stepdad. “Hey hey, welcome home,” Mark greeted him, smiling.

Spot immediately shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“It’s good, it’s good. How’d you like your first half of senior year?”

“Not bad.” Spot sat up. “Kinda crazy.”

“Oh yeah, how so?” Mark asked, moving to lean back against Spot’s dresser, arms crossed comfortably over his chest.

“Well...d’Mom tell you about my friend that got stabbed?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that definitely counts as ‘crazy’.”

“Yeah.” Spot shifted awkwardly. He had never been a fan of Mark in his room, or his mother, for that matter.

“How’s school going?” Mark went on, either unaware of or uncaring for Spot’s discomfort.

“Good, I think. Should get my final grades for the semester back, soon...”

Mark nodded. “I’m sure they’ll be great, you’ve always been a smart kid.”

Spot pressed his lips together into a sorry excuse for a smile. “Thanks.”

* * *

“You ready to go, man?” Race asked, slinging his dance bag over his shoulder. Finch’s car was in the shop, so Race had offered to give him a ride home after ballet—he lived closer to Finch than the other guys did.

“Yeah.” Finch clapped him on the arm. “Hey, thanks for driving me, man.”

“No problem.” Race nodded, lightly kicking Tommy’s ankle as a goodbye on his way towards the door.

They booked it to Race’s car, as it was literally freezing out.

“God, I hate the winter.” Race grumbled, turning on the car and blasting the heat, even though the engine wasn’t warmed up, so it was just cold air.

“Dude!” Finch protested, flipping the vent away from him.

“It’ll warm up faster if it’s on!” Race assured him, having no idea of this was true or not.

Finch pulled his knees up and hugged them to his chest, grumbling about being a ‘Summer baby’ and ‘fucking freezing’.

“Winter should be illegal,” Race pulled the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands as makeshift mittens. Even the steering wheel was like a specifically ergonomic block of ice. At this temperature, he was just glad the car even started, and Finch didn’t live too far. “So how’s everything going?” he asked as they pulled out of the studio parking lot.

“Fine, ‘cept for hitting a patch of ice with my car and sliding gently into a pole.” Finch shrugged. “You?”

Race cringed, and got a better grip on the wheel. “Oh, y’know, I’m alive.” He wanted to ask how Kaylie was, but he also didn’t want to be an ass and fixate on that one single aspect of Finch’s life.

Finch nodded. “Man, I’m ready for winter break.”

“Same. I think I’m just gonna sleep through the whole thing.”

“That sounds incredible.” They pulled into Finch’s driveway, and Finch twisted around to grab his bag from where he’d thrown it in the backseat.

Finally, Race just couldn’t resist. “How’s shit with Kaylie, anyway? I know you said her folks freaked out when she told ‘em...”

“Oh, yeah,” Finch replied. “They’re demanding I marry her.”

Race choked back a surprised laugh. “Ya gonna?”

Finch scoffed. “Fuck, no.” He gestured towards his front door. “You wanna come inside, for a bit?”

Race shrugged and turned the car off. “Yeah sure.” He got out, kicking the door shut behind him. “I think I got a ring pop in my glove box, if you change your mind.”

“Good to know. Could save me a lot of money.”

“It’d be a nice big stone, too,” Race snickered, following him to the door.

After a brief ‘hello’ to Finch’s parents, they headed upstairs to his room. Making himself right at home, as he did pretty much anywhere, Race flopped onto the bed, and he smiled as he noticed the sonogram picture propped up by the lamp on the bedside table. He snatched it up to get a better look at it. “How many weeks they been cookin’ now?” he asked.

“Ten,” Finch answered without hesitation. “S’like, a quarter of the way there.”

Race nodded. “Cool.” He rolled over onto his stomach, looking across at Finch, where he had taken a seat in the spinny chair at his desk. “How’re you doing with all that?”

Finch raised his eyebrows. “You mean the kid?”

“Yeah, the whole thing.”

He let out a blustery exhale. “Well, shit, they’re my kid. I mean,” he gestured to the picture in Race’s hands, “I’d die for that thing.”

Race waved his hand dismissively. “No, I know you’re not a piece of shit. I meant, like, how are you feeling? Shit, man, I’d be fucking terrified. Can you imagine someone having to deal with _ me _ as a parent?”

“No,” Finch said bluntly. “They’d die. You’d forget them on the roof of your car or something.”

Race shot a pair of finger guns at him. “Exactly.”

“Look, Race,” Finch sighed, “you really wanna ask me if I’m scared? ‘Cause that’s a stupid question. I haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since I found out. You know, what if she miscarries? What if there’s something wrong with the baby? What if I make a mistake? And I know I will. Make mistakes, I mean. But—...” He shook his head. “Race, it’s not about _ me _ anymore.”

Race was quiet for a moment before he answered. “I know. I’m not tryin’ to be dumb; I’m tryin’ to be a good friend—emotional upkeep and all that shit.”

“I know.” Finch nodded. “I love you. You an’ Jo an’ Tommy—I don’t tell you guys enough.”

“That’s what I’m here for, man, shower me in affection,” Race teased.

Finch smirked. “Don’t you have a boyfriend for that?”

“Yeah, but if I don’t have _ everyone _ adoring me all the time, I could very easily die,” he replied cheerfully.

“Then perish.”

* * *

Race didn’t usually smoke while he was driving, not because it was too much of a distraction or anything, but because he didn’t want his car stinking of smoke for the rare occasions one of his parents borrowed it for whatever reason. However, it was too cold for lurking outside his bedroom window, and he didn’t want to put in the extra effort to stop and pretend not to be loitering by the gas station, so he just rolled his window down a little and made sure most of the smoke went that way.

One of the many good reasons for Race not to have kids: Smoking.

He’d tried to kick the habit a few times, but it hadn’t worked out. Of course, you’re never too young to start or stop doing something, it’s just a question of opportunity and dedication. He had plenty of one, not so much of the other. Race had survived a car crash, a stabbing, and his own crackpot mind for eighteen years now, he wasn’t about to get taken down by a little paper tube and his own lungs. His parents hated it—when they knew about it—but most of his friends didn’t really mind. Albert and Finch even stole a few from him once in a while, though Race would have to be sure not to let that happen anymore, now that there was a baby on the way. Sure Finch wasn’t the one pregnant, but there could be negative effects from the father being a smoker—granted it was a bit too late to talk preventative measures, but you certainly don’t want anyone around smoking once the baby is out and using its own little puny lungs.

With a yelp, Race was startled out of his rather turbulent stream of consciousness by a sudden, sharp pain on his forearm as he turned the steering wheel. He’d lost track of what body part was where, and what was holding what, and managed to shift his arm right onto the end of his cigarette, still pinched and smouldering between two fingers on his other hand. He jerked away instinctively, causing the car to swerve unpleasantly, but he recovered quickly.

Another reason kids were a bad idea: Distracting.

Once he got home, Race headed for the bathroom, planning to wash off his burn. Maybe put some Silvadene or aloe or some other burn cream thingy on it. It wasn’t bad enough to have broken the skin or anything, just a nice little round pink spot— Heh, _ Spot _—

He stopped in his tracks, and realization crashed into him like a runaway train as his mind whipped back to the conversation he’d had with Spot (whose stepdad used to smoke) the day before.

Shit, poor Spot. Poor, wonderful, secretly sweet and kind Spot. He may have been a major asshole, but no one deserved that shit. Race frowned at the mark on his arm. He wanted to make things better for Spot, and while there wasn’t really anything he could do to heal old wounds, he could at least try to contribute to a better, less painful future.


	58. An Elaborate, Evil Plot to Break Race’s Heart into a Million Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boysTM video chat.

“Did you know a bee sting to the dick can permanently enlarge said dick?”

Spot’s face twisted into a high-definition image of psychological discomfort, somehow managing to still be hotter than the sun. Race giggled. After a little bit of consideration on Saturday evening, he and Spot had agreed to Skype every other night or so around seven. Race had wanted to make it every night, but he didn’t want to seem too clingy. Besides, it would probably be pretty hard for Spot to explain to his parents why he had to call his bro every single night.

“Don’t worry though; yours is plenty big as is. I don’t think you need bees for your dick,” Race assured him.

“I’m...glad.”

“You and me both, baby,” he snickered.

Spot’s room—what he could see of it, anyway—was a lot homier than his room at Aunt Beth’s. It was still cleaner than Race’s, but that wasn’t saying much, and there was actually shit in it. He had a tall, plain bookcase with a couple little sports trophies and a football on the top shelf. There was an Eagles poster on the wall. Propped on the corner, there was—

“You have a guitar?”

“Oh.” Spot glanced back at it. “Yeah.”

“Play me something?”

Spot laughed awkwardly and blushed a little. “Shit, I haven’t played in a long time, Race.”

“Man I don’t care, I wanna hear you play!”

He groaned. “It’s gonna be bad.”

“Better than I could do,” Race retorted.

Spot laughed again. “Okay.” His blush deepened. “Give me a few days, I’ll learn something for you.”

Race beamed. This was the side of Spot very few people got to see. He was sweet, and amazing, and maybe a tiny bit shy, and Race loved him. Well, he was pretty sure he did, anyway.

“Man, I miss Lizzie,” Spot sighed. “S’too fuckin’ quiet, here.” His parents, he had explained, had gone to some Christmas party for his stepdad’s company, so he had the house to himself for a while.

“If you want, you can put me on speakerphone in the corner, and I can just scream for a while,” Race offered, grinning.

Spot snickered. “Tempting, but I’m gonna have to pass.”

“I can’t say I blame you.”

Spot leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk, in front of the keyboard. “How’s New York?

Race shrugged, pulling his laptop into his lap so he could absently spin in his desk chair. “Significantly less fun without you around.”

“Woah, baby, you’re making me dizzy,” Spot chuckled.

“Yeah, I’ve been known to have that effect.” Race went to toss his hair—though it wasn’t all that effective with how short his hair was—and nearly smacked his head on the back of the chair.

Spot raised his eyebrows in that fake-unamused way people do when they’re actually very amused, and Race tucked his feet up, no longer propelling himself so he’d stop spinning eventually. “How’s Philly?”

“Ugh,” Spot grumbled, scrunching up his nose as if he’d smelled something awful. “I’d rather be back in New York.”

“Just bored, or...?” For some reason Race felt weird flat out asking Spot if he was okay, or if anything bad had happened.

“Nah, I got plenty to do, I just...” Spot sighed and looked down, smiling sadly. “I can’t be myself here, and it sucks.”

Race nodded. “It sounds pretty awful.” It was a shitty situation, and as much as he truly did sympathize, he couldn’t honestly imagine why it must be like. Race had never been anything other than himself, loudly and unapologetically, without ever really trying to cover it up. “You gonna visit with any old friends from school while you’re in town?” he asked, hoping to divert into some more familiar, cheerful territory.

“Yeah, I’ll probably catch up with some a’ my old teammates or whatever,” Spot said, then grinned in a teasing sort of way. “I pissed most of ‘em off, moving to New York right before senior year, so I’m sure they’d like to punch me.”

“I’m sure you’ll have fun wiping the floor with their asses.”

Spot smirked. “I can think of more fun things to do with their asses.”

“Hey!” Race protested, pouting. “ _ I’m _ the designated slut, here!”

“Oh, so you can be a slut, and I can’t?”

“You’re the one who said I can’t anymore, so if you get to, I get to.”

“Well, you just said I  _ don’t _ get to,” Spot folded his arms across his chest, “so I guess you’re shit outta luck, gorgeous.”

Race pouted again. “Well,  _ now _ what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

Spot leaned in very close to his camera. “I strongly suggest you don’t fuck anyone you like, while I’m gone, because I will make sure the next thing they fuck is a meat grinder. Got it?”

Race pressed his lips together tightly, trying not to giggle. “Loud and clear.”

“That’s my boy.” Spot winked.

Race couldn’t help but smile, and he could feel his cheeks heat up. He was so fucking weak for this beautiful boy.

Is that what love is? That uncontainable, warm, bubbly feeling in your chest at the mere sight of your person or the sound of their voice? When they do something that’s so simple but so cute you think you might die if you don’t just wiggle a bit to let the feeling out?

Spot chuckled. “You okay, there?”

Oh shit, he had wiggled. “I’m fine; you’re just, like, stupid cute.”

Spot made a face. “I am not  _ cute _ ,” he protested.

Race waved his hand dismissively. “Manly and handsome, whatever you want. And also cute.” He said, not quite under his breath.

“I’m putting you in time-out.” Spot reached forward and tapped something on his keyboard.

Race gasped so loudly and indignantly, he nearly choked on his own breath before shrieking. “ _ Did you just mute me!? _ ”

“What’s that?” Spot asked loudly. “Sorry, I can’t hear you. You’re muted.”

Race—of course—immediately proceeded to throw a tantrum about the injustice of it all, even going so far as to find little things to throw at his laptop camera, until his father threw open his bedroom door.

“What is going on in here, bud?”

Race promptly fell off his chair. “Oh hi, Dad.” He slipped a bit as he tried to get up, so it was a good bit less than graceful. “I’m just talking with Spot.”

“Okaaay...” Mr. Higgins said skeptically. “Any particular reason you’re...screaming?”

“I’m in time-out.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Race gasped. “What? Dad, no! You’re supposed to take my side!”

“Hi, Mr. Higgins,” Spot said politely, waving.

“Hello, Sean.” Mr. Higgins offered him a smile, perhaps a touch more sincere than usual. “Enjoying your time home?”

“Oh, I can’t hear you. I muted your son.”

He chuckled and gave him a small wave before turning his attention back to Race. “Give a shout if you need anything other than justice and retribution.”

Race grumbled, still pouting. “You’re a traitor to the cause.”

Mr. Higgins chuckled again and disappeared behind Race’s closing door, while Race whipped around, back in his seat now, to glare at Spot.

“You done?” Spot asked, smiling.

Race kept his mouth shut and simply continued to frown. Slowly, really building the suspense, Spot reached out and tapped his keyboard again, but Race remained quiet, now raising his eyebrows in an expectant, questioning manner.

“What are we not gonna call Spot?” Spot asked.

“A bastard?”

“No, you can call me that,” he said, “though ‘s inaccurate. My parents were married as fuck when I was born.”

“How many guesses do I get?”

“Cute, dumbass. I’m not  _ cute _ .”

“Bitch, yes you are!”

“Racer,” Spot leaned in close again, “do you know how many times I got called ‘cute’ as a preteen by little old ladies at the grocery store? I get it. I’m a fuckin’ short little man.”

Race scoffed. “I get called ‘cute’ all the time too, and I’m tall as fuck.”

“First of all, you’re below average height. Second, you  _ are _ cute,” Spot waved a hand at the screen, “got the sweet little angel face and all that.  _ I’m _ short.”

“Short has nothing to do with it!” Race continued to argue.

“Oh yeah? What is it, then.”

Race flailed at the screen. “Wh— It’s that you’re cute!”

Spot rolled his eyes. “Puppies are cute. Lizzie’s cute. I’m—”

“Ruggedly handsome?”

He snorted. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“I still think you’re cute.”

He threw up his hands. “For fuck’s sake.”

Race grinned. “You can’t win. You’re inarguably adorable, it’s just a fact.”

“And you’re inarguably a jackass,” Spot grumbled.

“Well yeah, no, duh.”

Spot rolled his eyes again, and Race snickered, then realized all at once that this was what they could be. Spot was  _ leaving _ in five months, and God knew when he’d be back, and then...this was what they’d have—teasing each other over video chat. At least, this time, Race knew that— _ when _ Spot was coming back. He tried really hard to keep the sudden emotion off his face. It hurt. It scared him. He didn’t want Spot to go, but he had absolutely no right to ask him to stay. He sighed. “I miss you.”

Spot smiled sadly. “I miss you, t—”

Race heard a door open, and Spot’s gaze snapped to the side, his face turning white as a sheet. After less than a split second of confusion, Race felt his heart jump into his throat. He’d never seen fear in Spot’s eyes like that, and that could only mean one thing.

“Right? It’s a pretty obvious response.” Race started talking again quickly, laying a forced air of casualness over his voice. “If someone says they miss you, you say it back, you don’t launch into a tirade about how it’s their fault for never visiting.”

Spot frowned at Race for a moment, then his eyes went wide as understanding dawned. “Yeah, right? Hey, give me a second.” He turned back to the side. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you to get back so early...”

“Hey,” a man’s voice answered from off camera, sounding more curious than sinister, as Race had rather unrealistically expected. “Who are you talking to?”

“Anthony. ‘S my friend from school,” Spot said with practiced ease.

“Hi Mr.—” Race stopped just short of saying ‘Conlon’. It probably wasn’t ‘Conlon’.

“Young,” the man said, stepping into the frame beside a stone-faced Spot. “Nice to meet you, Anthony.”

Race pulled a smooth, well practiced smile onto his face. “No, I’m eighteen actually.”

The man snickered. “Dad jokes. I like it.” He clapped Spot on the shoulder and started back the way he came. “Your mom and I are downstairs, Sean,” he said as he disappeared.

“Cool,” Spot grumbled.

Race waited a few seconds after the door shut before letting the smile slide off his face and exhaling.

“Bastard,” Spot snarled under his breath.

“So that was...”

“Lucifer.”

“He’s not as cut as I would’ve expected,” Race said lamely.

Spot shrugged. “Yeah, well, ‘e lost his punching bag.”

Race winced. It was meant to be a joke, but it definitely went the wrong way.

Spot waved him off. “He hasn’t laid a hand on me in years—knows I could kick his ass, just drives me crazy playing ‘All-American Dad’.”

“That sounds pretty bad, too,” Race agreed.

“I should go...say hi to my mom...”

He nodded. “Right, sure.”

“I’ll talk to you Wednesday night.”

“Okay, love you.” It came out automatically, and he winced hard. “Maybe.” He cringed. “Yikes.”

Spot just smiled and laughed, as if he was actively  _ trying _ to make Race fall stupid in love with him. “Seeya, gorgeous,” he said quietly.

“Bye, Spotty,” Race mumbled before hitting the button to end the video feed and dropping his face onto his desk with a groan. It was like he just got dumber and dumber every time he talked to Spot. How  _ dare _ Spot be so gorgeous and sweet and tragic, all at once? It wasn’t fair.

Maybe Albert was right. Maybe this was all part of an elaborate, evil plot to break Race’s heart into a million pieces. If it was, it was going to work beautifully.


	59. Something About Breasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T’was the night before Christmas  
And all through the house  
Race was being a pain in the ass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes...
> 
> a) Buttons’ husband reveal  
b) The entirety of A Visit From St. Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore  
c) A link to a tumblr post that you will click at your own risk
> 
> Merry Christmas

“Tony, I love you, and I want to support your dreams,” Mrs. Higgins assured her son as they pulled into the church parking lot, “but we can’t move into a Build-A-Bear Workshop.”

“I’m just saying it would be the ultimate place to raise a child,” Race explained, adjusting the red, felt antlers on his head. “Think about it. All the toys already there and the tiny clothes—you’d never need to go shopping. Plus, the stuffing machine would make a great bed.”

Mr. Higgins put the car in park and turned his head to look at his wife in the backseat. “Are you secretly recording this conversation? We’re going to need it as evidence for CPS.”

“You wouldn’t turn the machine _ on _ while the kid’s in it!” Race amended. “Though actually that sounds pretty fun...”

“I’m too young to be a grandfather, anyway.” Mr. Higgins turned the car off and hopped out.

“Heeeeey, you forgot your antlers!” Race called after him, and Mrs. Higgins chuckled, unbuckling.

“Son, don’t you know male reindeer shed their antlers in the winter?” Mr. Higgins protested with a smile.

“Well, dang, I guess mom gets three pairs then.” Race grabbed his father’s discarded pair of antlers off the center console and offered them towards his mother, along with his own. She laughed, getting out of the car and dutifully putting on all three pairs of antlers.

“Finally, some good freaking parenting,” Race teased, careful to avoid swearing in front of his mom, at church, on Christmas Eve.

“Okay, okay.” Mr. Higgins patted Race on the back. “Let’s go celebrate the birth of Jesus.”

“Yaaay, Jesus!” Race replied cheerfully.

The Christmas Eve candlelight service was one of Race’s favorite things to do at church. There was always hot chocolate served, and everything was warm and happy. It was one of those times when it all _ really _ felt real, and for Race, that was where it counted. People talked about miracles—one of his old boyfriends had a cousin who swore she literally saw a blind man healed on one of her mission trips to Southeast Asia—and Race believed them. He hadn’t ever really seen one for himself, not anything big league like that anyway, but he’d also never seen the Grand Canyon. He wasn’t expecting to live some sort of big, God-filled, miraculous life, with earth shattering revelations and prophecies and whatnot, but he didn’t really need or even want that. He saw God in the little things, happy coincidences, and things that were just a bit too copacetic to be believable. There was that one time he couldn’t find his one dance shoe, and the next day it turned up sitting on the hood of his car. Later, he found out Mr. Higgins had spotted it laying next to the car and put it there for Race to find later, but even so. He had his miracles. He had his family, and his friends, and he had hot chocolate on Christmas Eve.

“Hey, Merry Christmas, Race!” Buttons, clad in a gray sweater and a Santa hat, called as he made his way out of the crowd, dragging a tall man in glasses and a matching Santa hat by the hand.

Race squeaked gleefully before clapping both his hands over his mouth. “Sorry,” he giggled, grinning massively as they approached. “Merry Christmas.”

“Race, this is Michael.” Buttons gestured to the man with him, who looked entirely out of his element. “Michael, this is Anthony Higgins. He goes by Race.”

Michael extended his hand. “Hi Race, nice to meet you.”

Race giggled again as he shook his hand. “Hi, sorry, you’re kind of my hero.”

“Oh. Thank you?” Michael glanced at Buttons, clearly a little baffled.

“‘Cause you guys are gay.” Race clarified, still grinning.

“Long story,” Buttons told Michael. “I’ll tell you, later.”

“Hey!” Elmer appeared, as usual, out of seemingly nowhere. “Buttons, Specs—Can I call you Specs?—Merry Christmas!” He tossed an arm over Race’s shoulder and leaned heavily into his side.

Race casually punched him in the ribs. “Hey, Merry Christmas, Elmer.”

Elmer slapped a gross, sloppy kiss on his cheek and eased away into the crowd, shouting, “M’ry Chrysler, pretty boy!”

Michael was looking more nervous and confused by the second, so Race decided to give the Mr.s McGee a slightly early Christmas present and ventured into the crowd himself to find his parents. “It was nice meeting you,” he said to Michael in parting, and wiggled his fingers happily at Buttons.

“Tony!” he heard his mother call. “Come on, it’s time to go in!

He trotted over towards her, feeling more or less happy. He liked Christmas. Christmas was good.

* * *

“Mom, this is ridiculous, I’m way too old for this sort of thing,” Race protested, smiling, just like he had every year since his first Christmas with the Higginses.

Also just like every year, Mrs. Higgins answered, “I know, but I didn’t have you back then, so we’re gonna do it now.” She sat down on the couch, setting a picture book of The Night Before Christmas open in her lap as Race curled dutifully against her side with what would be his fourth cup of hot chocolate for the night. He would sleep when the sugar crash hit. That was a Christmas tradition, as much as the reading.

“T’was the night before Christmas, when all through the house,” Mrs. Higgins began, “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”

At his cue, Race aggressively stirred his cocoa.

“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,  
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.”

“I wish we had a chimney,” Race interrupted. “That way, we could have nice, normal, friendly, fat Santa Claus instead of the scary one that deflates so he can squeeze under door frames.”

“Shh,” Mrs. Higgins gently admonished, chuckling as she turned the page.

Race frowned poutily. “Ho ho ho,” he grumbled, wiggling back and forth with each ‘ho’ as he snuggled closer.

Mrs. Higgins continued, “The children were nestled all snug in their beds,  
While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.   
And mamma in her ‘kerchief and I in my cap,   
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,   
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,   
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.”

“I bet this sorta problem was why NATO set up their Santa tracker,” Race interjected again.

“_ Away to the window _ ,” Mrs. Higgins spoke over him, “I flew like a flash,   
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.”

This time, Race raised his hand, and waited for Mrs. Higgins to call on him.

“Yes, dear?” she asked.

“What’s a sash?”

“It’s like a curtain.”

He nodded, indicating for her to continue.

She looked back down at the page and sighed quietly. “The moon on the breast—”

“_ Breast! _” Mr. Higgins called from the other room.

“—of the new-fallen snow—”

Race gasped. “Mom!” He dropped his voice to a low, scandalized tone, setting his hot chocolate down on the coffee table. “You can’t just say _ breast! _”

“Listen, son,” Mr. Higgins said seriously, his entrance into the room heralded by the bells on the toes of his elf slippers. “Breasts are wonderful things, not that _ either _ of you would appreciate them the way I do.”

“Eee_ eeew! _” Race protested, clapping his hands over his ears.

“Joel,” Mrs. Higgins huffed in slight annoyance, staring her husband down as she continued reading. “Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,  
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,   
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.”

“Okay, but I don’t get what he means ‘miniature’,” Race questioned, interrupting his mother once again. “If Santa is all big and holly jolly like they say, and he’s got that big ol’ bag of Christmas loot, how small can that sleigh really be?”

“Maybe regular sleighs are just very large, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins suggested, then turned back to the book. “With a little old driver so lively and quick,  
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.   
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,   
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:   
‘Now, _ Dasher _ ! Now, _ Dancer _ ! Now _ Prancer _ and _ Vixen _ !   
On, _ Comet _ ! On, _ Cupid _ ! On, _ Donner _ and _ Blitzen _ !   
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!   
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!’”

“Rudolph is propaganda,” Race muttered sleepily.

Mrs. Higgins turned her head briefly to drop a kiss onto the top of his head. “As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,  
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,”

“‘S a good line.” Race interrupted sleepily. “Like proper AP English poetry.”

“So up to the housetop the coursers they flew  
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.   
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,   
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.   
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,   
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.”

“Still better than squishy, flat Santa.”

“He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,” Mrs. Higgins continued, ignoring him. “And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.  
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,   
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.   
His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!   
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!   
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,   
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.   
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,   
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.   
He had a broad face and a little round belly   
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.”

“Is it just me that thinks all the food comparisons are weird?” Race asked, picking up his cocoa again.

“Yes,” his mother answered quickly.

“_ Right? _ It's just an odd choice to make, especially twice in the same paragraph—or is it a stanza?”

“I meant yes, it’s just you,” she chuckled, ruffling his hair.

“Oh, well never mind then.” He drowned the end of his sentence in his cocoa.

“He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,” Mrs. Higgins read on, “And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

“Which is just plain _ rude _.” Race interrupted yet again.

Mrs. Higgins ignored him, yet again. “A wink of his eye and a twist of his head  
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.   
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,   
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,   
And laying his finger aside of his nose,   
And giving a nod, up the chimney he ro—” Mrs. Higgins didn’t even get a chance to finish the line before Race was off again.

“_ Howww!? _ No where else is it ever said that Santa has crazy levitating magic! How did he just _ rise up the chimney? _“

Mr. Higgins, who had taken up residence in the armchair, slammed a hand down on his knee. “Because [Santa Claus is Macavity the mystery cat in ](https://stillwaitingformymunkustrap.tumblr.com/post/181687165679/a-work-of-art-by-smolbirb98) [disguise](https://stillwaitingformymunkustrap.tumblr.com/post/181687165679/a-work-of-art-by-smolbirb98).”

Mrs. Higgins’ eyes widened. “Please, Joel, not this again.”

Race pointed at Mr. Higgins in enthusiastic agreement and began counting off on his fingers aggressively. “Breaking and entering with no evidence, defies the laws of gravity, sneaks around at night and no one ever sees him. It’s all right there!”

Mr. Higgins nodded sagely. “When you reach the scene of Christmas—”

“Macavi-Claus’s _ not there! _“

Mrs. Higgins spoke up, sounding genuinely distressed. “Sweetie, the only times I regret putting you in dance lessons are when you bring this up.”

“One day I’ll be in a production of CATS, and then _ everyone _ will be sorry.”

“_ My son is going to be the best Mangocherry the world has ever seen! _” Mr. Higgins announced, making up for what he lacked in pronunciation with confidence.

“Boys, can we please just finish the book?” Mrs. Higgins begged.

“You can’t hide from the truth forever, Rachel,” Mr. Higgins said, but he gestured for her to continue, anyway.

She huffed. “Thank you. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,  
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.   
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,   
‘Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!’”

“Goodnight Santa,” Race replied through a yawn.

Mrs. Higgins wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed him close. “I love you so much, baby boy.”

“Mmm, I love you too, mom,” he sighed happily, leaning against her.

After a minute of quiet, Race yawned again and got up. “Time to prep for invasion,” he announced on his way towards the kitchen. He grabbed three packets of instant oatmeal, the cinnamon sugar, and the box of ‘homemade’ christmas tree shaped sugar cookies from Wegman’s out of the pantry and dropped them on the counter. Next, he turned to set the coffee maker so all you’d have to do is press the ‘start’ button in the morning and rooted around in the cabinet above to find the traditional Santa mug, only ever used on Christmas—a plain white mug with a little cartoon Santa Claus in flip flops, red board shorts, and a blue and pink Hawaiian shirt, along with sunglasses and a pink flamingo pool inflatable, holding some drink in a coconut shell with a little paper umbrella—which he set out on the counter next to the sugar bowl. He poured the oatmeal in a cereal bowl, and sprinkled a generous amount of cinnamon sugar over top, then placed the bowl on a larger plate, and arranged a few cookies around it, topping the whole thing with a note. _“Hit the button on the coffee pot before you start setting out the presents_—_that way it’ll be done by the time you’re ready for a break._ _Milk is in the refrigerator door, sugar is in the bowl next to your mug.” _He signed it with a squiggly heart, and _“Your favorite Christmas boy”, then _headed back to the living room to place it under the Christmas tree. “Cookies for the reindeer and oatmeal for Santa,” he reported to his parents sleepily, before frowning and waving his free hand dismissively, “or whatever.”

They’d stopped leaving milk out after the year Mr. Higgins—I mean Santa, obviously—had overlooked it and knocked the glass over while arranging presents under the tree. Who wants to drink room temperature milk, anyway?

After hugs and goodnights and Race’s annual promise of ‘no traps this year, Santa can walk free’, the Higginses headed off to bed. Race climbed the stairs and wiggled down between the sheets with a happy sigh. He loved Christmas. For as long as he could remember, when he was a kid, he’d dreamed of a big, happy, family Christmas, with all sorts of wacky traditions and nonsense, and when he’d gotten to the Higginses, they’d been more than happy to accomodate all those dreams, and of course added a few of their own. Not to be unbearably cheesy, but, as happy as Race was to have all those fun traditions and such, he was mostly just happy to be part of a family that cared.


	60. A Pair of New Shoes with Matching Laces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HOOOOO IT’S CHRISTMAS.

“Sean!” Spot’s mother called at seven in the fucking morning, pounding on his closed door with her fist. “Your grandparents are going to be here in one hour! You need to get ready!”

Spot groaned. His grandparents were the stuck-up, stuffy kind of old people who were always dressed up and judging people’s etiquette. He loved them, of course; they were his grandparents, they were always kind to him, and they rarely took issue with anything he said or did in their presence. Waking up at seven in the morning on Christmas so he could get presentable enough to meet their personal grooming standards, though? That sucked.

“Come on!” his mother called, already heading back down the hall and downstairs.

He groaned again, but dutifully sat up and got out of bed, heading for the shower. The last thing he wanted was family drama on Christmas.

Spot was a premium member of the two-minute shower club, but it took him at least three times as long this morning. His body was tired, and the warm water felt so nice and cozy, and if he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was back in New York. After his shower, he got dressed in the outfit his mother had picked out for him, which consisted of khaki slacks, a red button-down, a black jacket, some dumb Christmas socks, and leather shoes. He hadn’t even gotten this fancy for homecoming.

“Sean, breakfast!” his mother called from downstairs.

He dragged a comb through his hair as quickly as he could, knowing he would just get shit for it if he didn’t, and hurried down. Breakfast was strata—a dish his mom only ever made on Christmas, though it wasn’t nearly as fancy or tasty as such an honor would suggest. It was just breakfast casserole bullshit. Spot liked it well enough, and he ate enough to tide him over until early Christmas dinner.

As Julie was clearing away the dishes, the doorbell rang.

“Go get that, Sean?” Mark suggested in a way that was pretending to be a request.

“Sure,” Sean mumbled, already on his way.

“Merry Christmas!” Spot’s grandmother greeted him happily when he opened the door.

“Merry Christmas, Nana,” Spot said, smiling.

“Well, come on, don’t just stand there, let’s have a hug,” she chuckled, opening her arms as she stepped through the doorway.

Spot wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed. “It’s good to see you.”

She hummed that ‘I am hugging and being hugged’ hum that people do sometimes. “It’s good to see you too, sweetie. How’s your holiday so far?”

Spot hoped his smile didn’t look as fake as it was, as he pulled away. “It’s good.”

Now Spot’s grandpa stepped over for a hug—one of those distant, manly things, with a rough squeeze and a pat on the back. “Merry Christmas, Sean.”

“Merry Christmas, Grandpa.”

“Were you good this year?” he teased in that weird, gruff, accusatory way old male relatives always seem to. “Not expecting any coal in your stocking, heh?”

“Oh, I’m expecting lots of coal,” Spot joked.

“Good man—we can have a proper Christmas barbecue!”

He grinned. “Takin’ one for the team.”

“What’s this about a Christmas barbecue?” Mark joined in, coming into the foyer to greet his in-laws.

“Sean’s got us plenty of coal lined up,” Grandpa chuckled, offering Mark the same stiff hug.

“Oh? And here I thought you’d been good this year,” Mark teased. “You been keepin’ secrets, Sean?”

“Always,” Spot deadpanned, taking full advantage of the opportunity to tell the truth while it would sound like joking. Naturally, everyone chuckled. Works every time.

“Come in, come in,” Mark said, ushering Nana and Grandpa towards the living room. “Merry Christmas.”

And so the usual family chatter began. How’s work? How’s retirement? How’s school? How’s all this other stuff that doesn’t really matter? And of  _ course _ , it wouldn’t be Christmas with Nana and Grandpa without, “Any word on the future Mrs. Conlon?”

Spot sighed. “No, Grandpa. I’m still in high school.”

Grandpa huffed indignantly. “Nonsense! Why, I met your Nana when we were fourteen!”

Spot groaned internally.

“When I was your age,” Grandpa went on, “I had a wife and a job at my old man’s shop.”

“Yes, but things are different now, Dad,” Julie jumped in. “It’s not usual for people to get married right out of high school anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t start laying some groundwork!” Grandpa protested.

Spot cringed. He couldn’t wait to be independent, move the fuck away, and send these folks a Christmas card from him and Race.

Oh. That was a thought.

He was jostled back to the present by a nudging elbow in the ribs from Grandma, who was smiling like there was a secret between them. “You at least got your eye on anyone special?”

“Can’t say I do.” It wasn’t a lie. He  _ did _ , but he couldn’t say it.

“A boy your age? Whyyy, I can’t believe that you aren’t just swatting the skirts away!” she protested.

Spot chuckled awkwardly, “Yikes,” and again, everyone chuckled.

“I’m sure Sean will know, when the right girl comes along,” Julie said pointedly. “There’s no sense in rushing into things with the wrong person.”

_ Like I did with his father _ was heavily implied, and Spot pressed his lips together unhappily. He wasn’t an accident—not that he knew of, anyway—but his mom had a special way of always making him feel like a mistake. He sighed quietly, wishing for the millionth time that he was back in New York.

* * *

“ _ Hooooo, it’s Christmas!!! _ ” Race shrieked, flying down the stairs the instant the clock hit ten.

When he was first adopted, his parents had explained to him that Christmas was a special day for them, above and beyond the normal special-ness of the holiday, because Mr. Higgins had proposed on Christmas. He hadn’t meant to; he’d meant to propose just after the New Year, but that one Christmas afternoon, when the two of them weren’t quite out of college, he just couldn’t help it, and it slipped out. So now, at Race’s suggestion, the deal was that Christmas morning belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. Race wouldn’t come downstairs till ten o’clock, but as soon as ten o’clock hit, down he came, like a bat out of hell, crashing down the stairs whooping and hollering, and this year was no different.

His parents were on the couch drinking coffee, watching in amusement as he vaulted over the railing on the last few stairs and nearly fell on his face.

“Merry Christmas, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins said, smiling.

“Wooo, Christmas!” he crowed happily.

Mr. Higgins chuckled. “Go ahead, bud, see what Santa brought.”

“Stockings first!” Race announced, following protocol and heading over to grab the stockings from their place where they hung off the TV stand, seeing as there was no fireplace. He delivered his parents’ to them before retrieving his own and sitting down on the floor to go through it. As always, there was a frankly ridiculous amount of chocolate, along with a few smaller, silly gifts, like a pack of extra long crazy straws and a novelty barrel of monkeys magnet set Mrs. Higgins had found goodness only knows where. They each had the same pair of crazy socks, so they could all match. This year, they were galaxy print with cats in spacesuits.

“Present time, present time, open a present and see what’s inside!” Race chanted when they were done with stockings, grabbing a package and checking the tag before crossing the room to hand it over to Mrs. Higgins.

“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, beginning to untie the bow on top. Mrs. Higgins was the ‘save the wrapping paper’ type (Race was more the ‘it’s not Christmas without carnage’ type). Inside was a lovely glass teapot with a built in infuser and a package of flowering teas. Mr. Higgins had picked out the teapot, and Race had suggested the tea to go along with it.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Mrs. Higgins exclaimed. “Thank you boys.”

“We know how you love your leaf juice.” Race nodded, and Mr. Higgins chuckled, pressing a kiss to Mrs. Higgins’ temple.

She nodded, holding up the box of tea. “This is my favorite leaf juice.”

Race headed back to the tree to fetch another present. This one was to him from ‘Santa’—which, all things considered, was a weird way to spell ‘Mom and Dad.’ Regardless, he tore into the wrapping paper with gusto, tossing shreds to and fro until he revealed a shoebox containing...well, shoes. Tap shoes, to be specific. Really nice ones.

“Oh  _ shit _ ,” he breathed, eyes widening in slightly awed surprise as he pulled them out of the box.

His mother tutted, “Language,” but she was smiling.

Race had been planning to get new tap shoes soon, anyway—his were worn out, and the laces didn’t match after he set one of them on fire—long story—but these were way more expensive than anything he would have gotten. “Wow...” he murmured, turning them over in his hands. “Mom, Dad, these are amazing!”

“Well, we can’t have  _ our _ son tapping in substandard shoes,” Mr. Higgins teased. “You’ll have to try them on later to make sure they fit. We can always exchange them for a different size.”

Race nodded eagerly, grinning. “Tommy’s gonna be so jealous.”

Mrs. Higgins rolled her eyes fondly, well aware of the friendly rivalry between Race and Tommy Boy. Next was a James Bond themed Monopoly Set for Mr. Higgins—he collected novelty Monopoly stuff—and then a copy of American Ninja (the terrible movie, not the extreme obstacle course show) for Race.

And so the day progressed with presents and conversation, and the Higgins tradition of some action movie that isn’t even arguably a Christmas movie, and takeout Chinese for dinner. After the movie was over and the dishes were cleared, Race headed upstairs to video chat Spot.

* * *

Spot had hoped to get changed out of his stupid Christmas clothes and into his pajamas before Race called, but alas, his grandparents left later than expected. No sooner had he closed his bedroom door behind him than the Skype call came in on his laptop, and he answered. It’s not like Race would care if he changed clothes in front of him, anyway. “Hey, Race.”

An enormous grin spread across Race’s face. “Hey, d’j’ou get all dressed up just to see little ol’ me?”

“I got dressed up to see my grandparents,” Spot confessed, stepping just out of frame to grab some sweats from his dresser. “I’m putting on pajamas.”

“Let me see, let me see!” Race demanded, still grinning.

Spot snickered and stepped back into the frame. He took off his jacket, then took a seat in his desk chair as he began to undo the buttons on his shirt. “How was Christmas?”

“It was nice,” Race answered, applauding lightly as Spot reached the last button.

Spot winked as he pulled the shirt off over his shoulders, giving Race a nice, little, momentary strip tease.

“Woo!” Race cheered, careful not to get too loud.

Spot rolled his eyes, standing up to shed his dress pants. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Take it off! Take it off!” Race chanted, clapping again.

Spot kicked his pants to the side and replaced them with his sweats, then sat back down.

“Where’s my lap dance?” Race pouted, teasing.

“A closet in Philadelphia,” Spot retorted.

“But I’m not in Philadelphia!” Race whined, pouring heavier.

“Lucky you!”

“Yeah, but now I can’t get a lap dance.”

Spot quirked an eyebrow and lowered his volume slightly. “Ain’t you the dancer in this relationship?”

“Well, I could be, but you’re too far away.” Race smirked.

Spot chuckled lowly, feeling very playful all of a sudden. Race had that effect on him. It was, frankly, disgusting. “A week and a half,” he said. “Then, the things I’ll do to you, baby...”

Race bit his lip in a fruitless and halfhearted attempt to hold down a grin. “‘S’at a threat, or a promise?”

“Both,” Spot told him, and he meant it, too.

Race giggled, clearly pleased by this answer. That little giggle was like music to Spot’s ears. There was nothing in the world quite like a happy Racetrack Higgins. He proceeded to wiggle, though it was a pouty wiggle as opposed to a happy one. “I wish you were coming back  _ now _ .”

“Impatient, are we?” Spot clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

Race continued to pout. “Not my fault withdrawal is hard.”

“Withdrawal?” Spot laughed. “I take it back. You’re not impatient, you’re  _ dramatic _ .”

“Well yeah, no shit,” Race scoffed.

Spot leaned his elbows on his desk and just looked at Race for a moment. The boy was  _ damn _ pretty, like a goddamn dream, to the point that it still caught Spot off guard sometimes.

Race narrowed his eyes at his scrutiny. “What?”

“You’re—” Spot cut himself off, looking towards the door as he heard footsteps on the stairs. He typed into the chat, instead. “ _ You’re the prettiest thing in the motherfucking world, you know that? _ ”

Race giggled again, biting his lip as he typed back. “ _ Yeah, I’ve heard rumors _ ”

Shit. Spot was gonna need him to stop biting his lip like that. “ _ I’d call you an angel but I’m pretty sure you’re leading me into sin _ ”

Race snorted, amused. “ _ Pretty sure we’re well into sin at this point, babe _ ”

“ _ I’m gonna sin so hard when I get back to NY. Merry Christmas _ .”

Race laughed. “ _ Happy birthday Jesus, we’re super gay _ ”

Spot smiled. This stupid boy’s laugh was gonna be the death of him.

Race typed in another message. “ _ man I can’t wait for you to come back _ ”

“ _ Me neither, baby. _ ”


	61. Boys Don’t Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter break continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve made it this far, you should be okay, but this chapter could be upsetting for some readers. Check the end notes if you’re worried. <3

Winter break was...uneventful, for Spot at least. He spent most of it playing video games and texting Race (okay, so maybe it was mostly sexting. Sue him). He met up with some of his old friends once, on Saturday, which was mostly just weird. He hadn’t been particularly close with anyone in Philadelphia—that is, he didn’t have anyone like Hot Shot, and he never had—and they had all gone on with their lives without him, so he was basically an outsider. He was basically an outsider everywhere, except in New York. Moving away had made things even weirder with his parents, which made sense, but he hadn’t really thought it possible. They asked a lot of questions, mostly about his living situation with Beth, as if trying to catch him on a reason he should move back, which they probably were. He kept his answers vague, and besides, things were generally good, in New York. His grades were good, he had friends, and he and Beth got along great.

“Where are you thinking you want to go to school, in the fall?” Mark asked on Sunday evening, just after dinner, and it was the first question Spot didn’t have a satisfactory answer to.

“Nowhere,” he said simply, hoping they could just get this over with as simply and painlessly as possible.

His mom looked up in surprise, and looked quickly to Mark, who was frowning. “You mean you haven’t found any, or you mean you haven’t looked?”

“I don’t want to go to college,” Spot clarified.

The room was a heavy, dangerous sort of silent for a minute, then Mark chuckled in a way that didn’t sound at all amused. “Funny, Sean, now c’mon, let’s get serious. If you haven’t found anything you like, we can—”

“I don’t want to go to college,” Spot repeated, though the way Mark was looking at him made him feel more like a stubborn kid than an adult who was confident in his decision. “I want to join the military.”

Julie’s eyes widened. “Sean—”

Mark spoke over her, scoffing. “The military?”

“Yeah, the military,” Spot snapped back.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sean.”

He stood up to take his plate to the sink. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re not exactly military stock, son,” Mark replied firmly, as if it were a statement, rather than a veiled insult.

Spot rolled his eyes, facing away so Mark wouldn’t see. “Oh yeah? How d’you figure that?”

“He just means it doesn’t seem like a place you’d fit in.” Julie amended.

“I  _ mean _ ,” Mark continued. “that you’re smart, so you’d be wasted over there.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Spot said, dropping his plate and silverware into the sink and turning back around. “What good would college do me, anyway?”

“Sean, a good education is everything. Get yourself a degree, a good job, a good life—”

“That’s not what I want.”

“Well, what about what we want for you?” Mark asked, standing up from the table, but Spot didn’t back down.

“It’s  _ my _ life. Don’t you think what  _ I _ want is a little more important?”

Mark scoffed. “Crack heads want crack, does that mean it’s good for them?”

“Where is this coming from?” Julie asked, distraught.

Well, seeing as ‘my incessant desire to get away from your husband’ was unlikely to go over well, Spot substituted, “Maybe I want to do something that matters.”

“Oh so life doesn’t matter unless you throw it away, is that it?” Mark cut in, indignant.

“Why is  _ everyone _ treating this like a death sentence?” Spot groaned. “I’m joining the military, not the fucking mafia!”

Julie looked like she was about to burst into tears, and Mark scowled at him sharply. “Watch your mouth, Sean.”

“Sorry,” he spat, not at all sorry. He walked back over to the table and stood in front of Mark. “Look, it’s my decision, and I made it. I’m going into the military instead of college. End of story.”

“It’s not that simple, Sean,” Mark snapped. “You can’t just make decisions like this.”

“Why not? I’m eighteen. I don’t even live here, anymore.”

“Because I am your father,” Mark said, voice rising in anger, “and I—”

Something in Spot just snapped.

“You’re not!” he shouted, cutting Mark off. “Fucking my mother doesn’t make you my father!”

There was a sharp crack, and a gasp from Julie as Spot reeled backwards from the force of Mark’s fist connecting with his face.

“What did I say about watching your mouth?” Mark snarled.

Everything was a little blurry, and it took Spot a moment to realize he’d been knocked back into his chair. He covered the sharp pain on his cheek bone with a shaking hand, breathing heavily.

“Julie, sweetie, why don’t you go into the living room? I want to talk to Sean.”

Mark never hit Spot in front of her before. She’d known, all these years, she had to, but she’d never seen it before. With a quiet nod, she left the room, and Mark turned back to Spot.

“I will not listen to you disrespect me in front of my wife,” he said stonily.

Spot bit his tongue, avoiding Mark’s gaze at all cost.

Mark put a hand on his shoulder, well practiced in cushioning intimidation with a little ‘caring’. “We can talk about your future later, once you’ve cooled down a bit,” he suggested, leaving no room for disagreement. “There’s plenty of schools just dying for smart, strong men like you, it’d be a shame to disappoint them.” Or to disappoint  _ him _ .

“Yeah, whatever.” Spot stood up, never taking his hand away from his face—that shit  _ stung _ , and not just physically—and made a break for the stairs. When he reached his bedroom, he closed and locked the door behind him, trying the handle a couple times to make sure it was, in fact, locked. With a shaky sigh, he backed up to his bed and sat down.

It had been  _ years _ .

By all accounts, Spot was a terrible target for physical aggression. He was built like a brick wall and could easily take down a man twice his size. It hadn’t always been like that, though. When he was a kid, he had just been...small—tough, but small all around. That had changed, around the time he went through puberty, which conveniently coincided with the last time he’d been smacked around. He could flatten Mark, but he didn’t, because he knew from experience that fighting back only made it worse, and at the end of the day, he was still scared of his stepdad.

Slowly, he brought his hand down into his lap, sniffling pathetically as his vision blurred with tears. He wasn’t supposed to cry. Boys didn’t cry, in that house.

A minute or so later, his computer screen lit up and blooped as Skype announced an incoming call. He stared blankly at Race’s name on the screen. It was seven p.m., time for them to talk. Spot watched as ‘Incoming call from Racetrack’ became ‘Missed call from Racetrack’. Less than twenty seconds later, another call came in. This time, Spot turned away, curling up with his head on his pillow, breathing shakily as tears rolled down his cheeks. Race was better than this. Spot didn’t want Race to see him cry.

His phone buzzed once, twice, three times, and reluctantly, he picked it up, looking at the previews on the screen.

“ _ Hey _ ”

“ _ Where are u _ ”

“ _ Pay attention to me _ ”

Spot opened the messages, looking at them for a moment before turning his phone off and tossing it onto the bedside table.

* * *

Race glared at his phone and the distinct lack of replies. Where  _ was _ he? He sent off another message to Spot—“ _ you good? _ ”—but that one didn’t get an answer, either. It wasn’t like Spot to just ignore him, and he couldn’t exactly just hop in his car and drive to Philly to climb in through his window and check on him.

Maybe he should call him.

He clicked on Spot’s contact, and the call went straight to voicemail. He frowned, now distinctly displeased. After the third call directly to voicemail, it occurred to Race that maybe he should be concerned, instead of upset. He texted him again. “ _ Dude are you okay? _ ”

His first three messages were listed as read, the rest as delivered.

_ Why is he ignoring me...? _

Race couldn’t remember doing anything to piss him off—nothing recent, anyway. After two more calls, Race decided to leave off for the night. Whatever he’d done wrong, being obnoxious and badgering Spot to try and find out what it was would probably just make it worse. He went over to his bed, setting his phone down on the bedside table and then curling up under the covers, feeling distinctly like a nuisance and hoping Spot would call him tomorrow.

* * *

Race, 7:05pm: Hey

Race, 7:05pm: Where are u

Race, 7:05pm: Pay attention to me

Race, 7:08pm: you good?

Race, 7:17pm: Dude are you okay?

Snack-Size Satan, 1:02am: Sorry

Snack-Size Satan, 1:03am: Want to talk tomorrow instead?

Snack-Size Satan 1:03am: Or I guess it’s today

Race, 1:04am: yeah sure whatever’s fine

Race, 1:04am: are u ok?

Snack-Size Satan, 1:06am: Yeah. See you tomorrow baby

Race, 1:07am: okay

* * *

Monday night, after dinner, Race rushed up to his room to wait for Spot to call him. Spot had apologized for blowing him off the day before, but Race still didn’t know why he had done it, and Race was rather anxious about the whole thing. Was he mad? Had Race somehow managed to piss him off without even talking to him? What was going on? He sat down in his desk chair, spun around twice, got up to pace the room, sat back down again, and so on. Maybe the time away had given Spot time to think. Maybe he had realized just how much better his life was without Race. Oh god, what if he wanted the extra time to prep to break up with him? Race had said he wanted a warning if it was gonna happen, had that been the warning?

When the call finally came in, he almost declined in favor of a quick vomit. Instead he dropped into his chair—which nearly slid out from under him—and answered with a smile that he hoped didn’t look as nervous as he felt. “Hey.”

Spot offered a small smile in return. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Race opened his mouth to say something else, but paused, narrowing his eyes at the screen. Was that—? “What’s on your face?”

Spot frowned. “What?”

Race tapped his own left cheekbone for illustration. “You got somethin’—”

“Oh.” Spot grimaced, lightly touching his cheek with his fingers. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

“What did you do?” Race hoped the answer wasn’t what he thought it was as he looked at the not quite purple bruise on Spot’s cheek.

Spot smirked. “You worryin’ about me, baby?”

“Yeah, Spot. You’re at your abusive parents’ house, you disappeared last night, and now there’s a bruise on your face; of course, I’m worrying,” Race hissed, unable to stop the flood of words, or the rising, panicked concern that pushed them out.

Spot’s smirk faltered, and he tried to hold onto it for a second before letting go. “Yeah. Well...” He looked down, scratching at the back of his head. “Turns out you ain’t the only one who’d rather I go to college.”

Race felt a sick swoop in his stomach, and his face fell. “Oh my god...”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Spot shrugged. “So the old bastard threw a punch—s’nothin’ you an’ I ain’t done to each other. Don’t be upset, baby.”

“Wh— no that’s different,” Race protested.

“I know,” Spot agreed, “but I’m fine, I promise.”

Race wanted to argue more, but he wasn’t really sure what he wanted to say—‘but that’s wrong’, ‘he shouldn’t have done that’, ‘I wish I could help’, ‘that sucks’. It all seemed pretty obvious and pretty useless.

Spot must have seen the turmoil on his face, because he softened his tone. “Don’t worry about me, Tony. I’ll be back in a few days, and then I’m never coming back here.”

_ Right, and then in a few months you’re never coming back  _ here.

“I’m still gonna worry,” Race muttered.

Spot sighed, smiling slightly. “Well, I can’t stop you.”

Race took a breath and shook himself a bit, trying to jostle away the unpleasant emotions that he couldn’t do anything constructive with. “Sorry, I’m being a drag.”

Spot shook his head. “You’re fine. Sorry I didn’t answer you, yesterday.”

Race shook his head as well. “Nah, you were havin’ a rough time. I doubt I’d’a been much help.”

“How are you?”

Race shrugged. “Bored. Christmas is over, so winter is useless now.”

Spot snickered. “I hear that. Now, it’s just cold.”

“Yeah, and the snow is shit right now, so I can’t even go sledding or anything.”

“Disgusting.”

“I know, right?” Race tried to stay focused and keep the conversation normal, but he was finding the bruise on Spot’s face and the meaning behind it very distracting. True, he also had hit Spot before, but that was before he really knew him. The real Spot was kind and smart and selfless, and the more Race got to know him, the more he believed that only a monster, a truly vile and evil person, could ever want to hurt him. “I wish you were in town for New Year’s,” Race said, jumping at a new topic that drifted near his focus.

“God, me too,” Spot groaned. “My parents wanna drag me to the neighborhood party, which inevitably ends with them trying to set me up with some girl.”

Race screwed his face up in distaste. “That sounds pretty shitty. Usually me an’ Jack an’ Al have a Twilight Zone marathon and get sick on Mexican food.”

“Yeah, that sounds way better than getting dressed up and eating hors d’oeuvres with old people I don’t even know,” Spot chuckled.

“Maybe you can join us next year.”  _ If you’re even still around, then. _

Spot smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains brief physical and mental abuse.


	62. I Kissed a Girl and Our Parents Liked It (I Hope My Boyfriend Don’t Mind It)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s New Years Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains playful, homophobic slurs exchanged between friends. :)

The Two Musketqueers and the Token Straighty

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: hey guys I have an important question

Race: What up?

My Best Pal-bert: Yeah shoot

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: How would you feel about David coming to Twilight Zone and Mexican food?

My Best Pal-bert: Ooooh bringing the boy toy, huh?

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: I wouldn’t call him the boy toy

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: I’d call him my future husband

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: My muse

Race: You got any of that dick yet?

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: I might have

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: That’s not the point

My Best Pal-bert: So no.

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: No

Race: Jesus, Kelly, you’re off your game

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: NO I’M NOT HE’S DIFFERENT

My Best Pal-bert: They’re all different, Jack

Race: Just cause your dumb blonde bimbos only hold your interest till the next one comes along doesn’t mean other people don’t have proper feelings, Al

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: So can he come to Twilight Zone and Mexican food or not?

Race: hell yeah, bring your lover boy

* * *

“What happened to ‘boys don’t wear makeup, makeup is for fags’?” Spot asked as his mother carefully blended concealer over what was left of his bruise. The New Year’s Eve party was in half an hour, and the Youngs were in a panic because they were going to be late, but ‘Sean can’t go out, looking like that’.

Julie sighed tightly. “It’s fine, sweetie, no one is going to notice.”  _ The makeup, or the bruise? _

“I could just not go,” Spot grumbled. “Tell everyone I’m sick or something.” He sneered. “Hey, you could tell them your husband decked me, and I have a bruise on my face.”

He almost regretted saying it when he saw the tears welling up in his mother’s eyes, but she didn’t say anything, and as much as he wanted to ask her why she let Mark do these things to him, neither did he.

“Alright, that should do it,” Julie exhaled, putting the setting powder down. “We ready to go?”

“Guess so.”

* * *

It was Albert’s turn to host New Year’s, which meant it was Race’s turn to bring food and Jack’s turn to bring drinks. Naturally, Race showed up at Albert’s a good seven hours early, and after spending a good portion of the day playing Smash Bros and Portal 2, Race called the local hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant to place an almost staggeringly large order for pickup.

“It’ll be ready in about forty minutes,” Race relayed to Albert after he’d hung up.

“Sweet.” Albert nodded, paying rapt attention to the procurement of food, as always. “When’s Jack gettin’ here?”

“We said six, right?” Race glanced around his phone, which displayed the time as just after five.

“Yeah, but he’s so fuckin’ nervous about having David over, I half expected him to show up at six, this morning.”

Race snorted, amused. “Yeah, this is gonna be interesting, for sure.”

It was around that time that Ms. Knowles headed out to be with her own friends for New Years Eve—perhaps unwisely—leaving the house in the hands of her son and his friends.

* * *

For some reason, New Year’s Eve was a big deal in Spot’s neighborhood. Some association of entitled moms with asymmetrical pixie haircuts and superiority complexes decorated the local community center in silver and gold, and everyone showed up to talk about how much better their year was than everyone else’s.

“Laura told me Sophie and her boyfriend broke up just before Christmas. Can you believe that?” Julie asked Mark as they pulled into the parking lot, clearly meaning for Spot to hear. “Poor, sweet girl. Sean, you remember Sophie Johnson, right?”

“Yep,” he answered plainly, trying to avoid humoring this bullshit even a little bit. Besides, what kind of stupid question was that? Of course he remembered Sophie. His mom and hers were good friends.

“Sweet girl,” Julie repeated, as if she hoped Spot would agree. He said nothing.

Mark unbuckled. “C’mon, let’s go get this over with.”

Julie scolded him lightly, amused, as she exited the car. Mark always enjoyed neighborhood events—any chance to show off his perfectly arranged life, really.

They made their way inside, Spot just behind his parents, and were immediately assaulted by an excessive amount of glittery decorations and the smell of cheap champagne.  _ Race would love this _ crossed Spot’s mind, and the thought at least brought a small smile to his face.

* * *

Jack sent a text announcing that he was running a bit late just as Race and Albert were climbing into Albert’s Jeep to go pick up the food—some wardrobe malfunction that was probably just Jack throwing a tantrum about not looking like a goddamn Disney prince. The Mexican restaurant was only a few blocks away, which was ideal, because Albert’s driving gave Race angina.

“Okay, no shit,” Albert said, meaning ‘in all honesty’, “I have never seen Jack this worked up over...anyone.”

Race nodded, buckling into the passenger seat. “Think he’s picked out a ring, yet?”

“I don’t even think they’ve kissed yet.” Albert shook his head, looking bewildered, as he backed out of the driveway. “Like, he would have told us, right? Texted us a million times? They went on that one date on the last day of school, and that was  _ it _ .”

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Race agreed. “Jack Kelly isn’t exactly the ‘let’s take it slow’ type.”

Albert nodded sagely. “Hit in an’ quit it. He has  _ never _ put in any effort.”

“I mean, he’s properly dated a few people before, but like, he was chill about it.”

Albert hummed thoughtfully, frowning at the road.

“God,” can you imagine what a mess he’ll be, if he’s actually falling in love?” Race asked.

“Yeah. Maybe you’re not the one I should be worried about.”

Race scoffed. “Bitch, I’m a delight, especially when I’m in love.”

“You pronounced  _ annoying _ wrong,” Albert retorted with a smirk.

Race pouted. “Rude.”

* * *

“Oh lord, here comes Wendy,” Julie muttered through a polite smile. Spot remembered Wendy as the sad, PTA mom wannabe. She was very involved in things at school, but her lemon bars were from Costco, and apparently that’s punishable by death.

“Hi, Julie! Mark!” Wendy greeted them cheerfully. Her eyes landed on Spot. “Oh my goodness, Sean, I didn’t see you.”

Spot cringed into a smile. “Hi, Ms. Preston.”

“Home for the holidays?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The boys have missed having you at school,” she continued. Her two boys had been on the football team with Spot. Jackasses, both of them. They’d been civil, for the most part, owing to the fact that Spot was also, in fact, a jackass, and no one dared mess with him.

Spot responded non-verbally with a polite smile. He was distracted then by an incoming text from Race.

“ _ Hey, me and the guys are gonna start drinking pretty soon, so you might wanna be careful who you open your phone around, I can’t be held responsible for whatever bullshit I might send _ .”

Spot smiled and replied with a crossed-fingers emoji. “ _ I hope it’s a dick pic _ .” Then, “ _ Thanks for the heads up, baby _ .”

“ _ Ooh you better be careful what you wish for _ ” was followed quickly by about eight winky face emojis.

* * *

“Whaddayou bet they’re late cause they’re making out in someone’s driveway?” Albert asked, having gone ahead and dumped a pile of Mexican food onto his plate once they’d gotten home, and Jack still wasn’t there.

Race snorted, amused. “Sounds about right.”

Of course, as is the way, that’s when the doorbell finally rang.

Albert headed for the door, still holding his burrito, and pulled it open. “Speak of the devil.”

Jack grinned. “Aw, were you talking about me?”

David stood next to him, looking like a nervous baby deer.

“Aren’t we always?” Race called from the living room.

Jack placed a hand over his heart, using the other to usher David through the door. “I’m flattered, Racey.”

“Ahh, shut your face,” Race replied dismissively, and he wiggled his fingers at David. “Heya, Dave. How’s stuff?”

David smiled politely. “Good, I guess.” He glanced oh-so-briefly at Jack and blushed a little.

“We were just sayin’ you’d better be late cause you got stabbed in the liquor store parking lot.” Albert whapped Jack’s shoulder lightly with his burrito.

Jack shoved him back. “We were  _ late _ because we realized Davey might not be able to eat any of the food we usually order, so we stopped to get him a quesadilla.”

David held up a paper bag as evidence.

A shit eating grin crawled onto Race’s face. “ _ ‘Davey’? _ ”

Jack’s cheeks turned bright red. “Yeah. You know—David, Davey...”

Race giggled. “Cute.”

David smiled lightly at Jack, and Jack looked incredibly relieved. He smiled back, looping an arm around David’s waist. “Twilight Zone time?”

“Hell yeah, man. We almost started without you,” Albert said, dropping back onto the couch and grabbing the remote.

* * *

“Caleb got accepted to the University of Texas, and it’s a great school; I just don’t know how I feel about him being so far away!” Mrs. Fitzpatrick, yet another football mom, complained to Julie and Mark while Spot lamented being too young to get shitfaced on cheap champagne.

“Yeah, that’s pretty far,” Julie sympathized.

“How about you, Sean? You been hunted down for your football skills yet?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick teased.

“Unfortunately,” Mark butted in, “Sean decided to quit football, when he moved back to New York.”

Spot huffed. “No point in joining a new team for one year. I’da been stuck on JV, anyway.”

“You could have stayed and gone for that football scholarship we always talked about,” Mark argued.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick jumped back in. “What are your plans for college, Sean?”

“No college. I’m going to go into the military,” Spot answered without hesitation. It’s not like Mark was gonna punch him, in the middle of the New Year’s Eve party.

“Oh my, the military!” She turned her smile towards Julie. “What a brave choice.”

Spot tried not to scoff as she smiled right back. “Yes, we’re very proud.”

That was  _ it _ . Spot was going to vomit if he had to stand here and listen to his parents pretend they supported his decision, as soon as it suited them. He quickly scanned the room, and thank God, thank  _ God _ , his gaze landed on Anna, the nice lesbian he had taken to homecoming the previous year.

“Hey, I’m gonna go talk to Anna,” he told his mom, darting off before she could even reply.

As she saw him approach, Anna broke away from her parents too, heading in his direction. “Well, if it isn’t my knight in shining armor,” she greeted him.

“Yeah?” He chuckled. “Now, it’s your turn. Save me.”

She snickered. “You checked out the snack table yet?”

“I haven’t checked out anything but Mark pretending he loves me.”

She made a face. “Oh gross. Come on, there’s lots of ‘mini’ stuff.”

* * *

“ _ It’s a disgrace is what it is _ ”

Albert looked over at Race, frowning in confusion over his text, and Race gestured emphatically to Jack and David, who were curled together on the floor, with Jack using the couch as a backrest and David using his side, being absolutely adorable. It was cute, in an annoying sort of way that made Race wildly jealous. Not jealous of David, per se—sure, Race and Jack had slept together a few times, but that hadn’t meant anything more than a good time with a good friend. Jack was one of his best friends, so there was the worry of ‘what if he gets so into this relationship that he disappears on me?’ But much more than that, Race was jealous that he wasn’t the one who had brought a date to be all annoying and cuddly with.

“ _ this is me erasur _ e” He sent another text to Albert. “ _ eRACEure _ ”

“ _ What the fuck are you talking about _ ” Albert shot back.

“ _ I’m supposed to be the one who’s all annoying and couple-y and cute! _ ” Race answered, pouting harder as Jack giggled at something David had whispered to him.

“ _ Shut up, Jack’s happy _ .”

_ “I can be glad that he’s happy and be mad that I’m not _ ” He sent another text immediately, because why not use separate messages as punctuation? “ _ I am capable of multiple emotions _ ”

“ _ You’re not single _ .”

“ _ What does that have to do with anything? _ ”

“ _ SO WHAT ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT _ ”

“ _ That I’M not the one canoodling on your living room floor!! _ ”

His phone buzzed again almost immediately, but no new message from Albert showed up. It took a second for Race to remember that he could receive texts from people other than whoever he was having a conversation with, but once he did, he clicked back to his inbox.

He found a message from Spot. “ _ My friend wants to see you _ ”

Race frowned, slightly surprised. “ _ Why? _ ”

“ _ Because I told her you’re hot _ ”

Race stifled a giggle. “ _ Who’re you tellin about me? _ ”

“ _ Anna _ ,” Spot replied, “ _ the lesbian I took to junior homecoming _ ”

Ah, the classic gay alliance. “ _ how fun _ ” Then, “ _ hang on lemme get a pic _ ”

“Albert, c’mere,” Race said aloud, opening the camera on his phone. “Spot wants to show off to a lesbian, and I look hottest when accompanied by other hot people.”

Jack squawked indignantly. “What are Dave and I?”

“A’right.” Race shrugged. You want it, you got it. Hup!” Race pitched himself forward off the couch, landing soundly on top of both Jack and David, who both groaned and rolled their eyes. Yep, they were perfect for each other.

“C’mon, Bertie boy.” Race waved Albert over as he lifted his phone for the picture. “Get in the shot.”

Albert leaned into the frame and flipped off the camera.

* * *

“Yeah, that’s him and his idiot friends, and...some other guy.” Spot held his phone out towards Anna. “He’s the blonde one.”

Anna grinned. “Cute. He as twinkish as he looks?”

“Oh, so much more.”

She laughed. “Wow, that’s impressive .”

“ _ He’s _ impressive,” Spot said. “Seriously. He’s one of those freaky genius people who’s somehow a total dumbass at the same time.” He typed out a quick reply to Race, while he was at it. “ _ is that Jack’s boy? _ ”

“Like the ‘absentminded professor’ type bullshit, or...?”

He received a reply pretty quickly—“ _ I DON’T KNOW _ ”—and of course another immediately after. “ _ I mean yeah, but like I don’t know if they’re actually a thing yet??? _ ”

“Like the ‘gets in fights with strangers outside of liquor stores’ type bullshit,” Spot replied to Anna, and to Race, “ _ He’s cute. Get away from him _ .”

She sputtered into laughter. “Holy shit, and you put up with that?”

Spot shrugged. “What can I say? He’s damn good in bed.”

“Eh, I guess that’s a good reason,” she conceded

“Wha— Anna, I’m kidding,” Spot laughed. “I mean, not about him being damn good in bed—he is—but shit, he’s like a human firecracker. He’s awesome.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Sean Conlon did you go and get yourself properly stuck on some dumb twink genius?”

A text buzzed in on his phone—“ _ get away from who? _ ”—along with another picture of Race, who was now properly in Jack’s boy’s lap with his arms slung around his neck and his foot in Jack’s face, pushing away his clear attempts to drag him off.

Spot laughed. “Yeah, I’m pretty stuck on him, I think.”

* * *

“Racer get  _ off! _ ”Jack wailed, catching ahold of Race’s ankle and pulling, but Race just hung onto David tighter.

“No, I’m comfy!”

David sputtered helplessly, clearly confused as to what was going on and how his life has gotten to this point.

“Off!” Jack demanded again.

“Who am I supposed to kiss at midnight!”

David made a noise of protest, but Jack was already yelling. “Absolutely not! Kiss Albert!”

“Ew, no!” Albert kicked at Jack’s head and missed.

“Yeah, remember last year? He tried to bite me.” Race pouted, finally consenting to being dragged, dead weight, off their poor guest.

“That is not Dave’s problem,” Jack argued.

“Besides, we all know you liked it.” Albert scoffed with a glare, and Race shot him an over the top wink.

“Oh you know it, big boy.”

“ _ Gross _ .”

“What time is it, anyway?” Jack asked.

“Timeforyoutogetawatch _ eyyyyy!!! _ ” Race shouted gleefully.

* * *

“Uh, like, eleven thirty?” Spot checked his phone. “Eleven thirty-four.”

Anna hummed, knocking back another handful of mini-Oreos.

_ Eleven thirty-four _ , Spot repeated in his head. The party would start winding down in about an hour and a half or so, though it officially ended at two. Maybe he could convince his parents to leave shortly after midnight.

“I swear this party gets longer and more boring, every year,” Anna sighed.

“You’re telling me,” Spot grumbled, locking eyes with his mother from across the room. She was giving him and Anna a smug sort of look. If only she knew.

Anna huffed, having noticed as well. “Y’know, thank god you moved away. It was about the only thing that got my folks to shut up about why we weren’t dating.”

“You ever tell ‘em you’re a lesbian?” Spot asked.

“Don’t be silly. Lesbians aren’t  _ real _ ; We’re just lonely girls who haven’t found the right guy yet.”

“Right,” Spot chuckled, “silly me.”

“I swear to god, as soon as I’m in college, I’m never coming home again.”

“Oh, if  _ that _ ain’t the biggest fucking mood.”

* * *

“Not even a  _ little _ kiss?” Race whined. He didn’t actually care if he kissed anyone at midnight or not, but he was never one to pass up an opportunity to torment Albert, and midnight was drawing near.

“Sure—you can  _ kiss my ass _ ,” Albert shot back.

Race gasped in faux delight, hopping up off the ground. “Really!?

“Oh my fucking god, you whore—”

Albert’s little tirade was cut off by Race’s phone buzzing.

“Yeah yeah, but you love me,” Race replied absently as he pulled his phone out.

“ _ Hey, baby, do you care if I kiss Anna at midnight to shut our parents up? _ ” Another message. “ _ Not like making out or anything, obviously _ ”

Race frowned. He certainly did care. He didn’t like that idea at all, but something made him pause, rather than just saying so. Why did he care? Race had never been one to automatically ascribe deeper meaning to physical affection, so frequently it didn’t matter and didn’t mean anything, and this was clearly one of those cases. Spot had directly said it was to shut up their parents, and not only that, but they were both gay, so there  _ definitely _ wasn’t ulterior motive...but some reason, it still made Race very displeased.

“What’s the matter?” David asked, catching on to Race’s sour expression.

“Uhh, Spot wants to kiss a lesbian.”

Jack made a face. “He what?”

Race waved his hand dismissively, still frowning at the message on his phone. “You know, put on a show for the parents and whatever.”

“Ah.” Jack seemed unconcerned, turning back to the TV without another word, which was a perfectly reasonable reaction. It was no big deal, nothing to be jealous about. Race was super physically affectionate with his friends all the time, and this was even less meaningful or personal than that, so it would be beyond hypocritical for him to be all upset.

“ _ Yeah, knock yourself out _ ” he sent back, still deeply displeased by the whole situation.

* * *

“Two minutes!” someone called from within the crowd, eliciting a chorus or cheers.

Spot just cringed. “Hey, uh, Anna?”

“Yeah?” She turned her attention back towards him.

“I’ve never kissed a girl.”

“Well, in my experience it’s better than kissing a guy, so...”

Spot smirked. “Now, I highly doubt that.”

Anna chuckled. “It’s the same concept, if you’re worried about technique,” she teased.

“I’m not.”

Someone in the crowd started the countdown from sixty seconds, and Anna rolled her eyes. “Overeager idiot.”

Unfortunately, this party was full of overeager idiots, and soon the countdown was all that could be heard, and Anna just groaned.

_ Well _ , Spot sighed lightly as they neared zero.  _ Let’s get this over with _ .

In the last three seconds, he leaned in, pressing his lips against Anna’s right at midnight. As promised, it wasn’t like making out or anything, just a kiss. It wasn’t the worst thing Spot had experienced by far, but it certainly didn’t do anything for him, being exclusively attracted to men and all. She reciprocated, just enthusiastic enough to be believable to an outside observer

“Well? How was it?” she teased when they broke apart.

“Not bad,” Spot confessed, “but you haven’t turned me straight, yet.”

She snapped her fingers. “Oh darn, my dastardly plan.”

“Well, Happy New Year anyway, ya dyke,” Spot teased, lightly pushing her shoulder.

“Oh shut up, you fairy,” she shot right back with a laugh.

* * *

“T minus two minutes!” Albert announced.

“Why does that even  _ mean? _ ” Race asked, sitting upside down on the couch, with his back against the seat cushions and his legs up over the back.

“I don’t know, jackass. What do I look like—NASA?” Albert huffed. “It’s just what you say.”

“No one says that.”

“I don’t know; I’ve heard it,” David chimed in.

Albert pointed towards him emphatically. “See? It’s a thing.”

“It’s a dumb thing,” Race retorted.

“Please,” Jack scoffed. “Davey’s smarter than you. He graduated early and everything.”

David blushed. “Jack...”

“You are, though!” Jack insisted, and Race waved his hand dismissively.

“I’m damaged goods, it’s more poetic that way.”

“What do you mean?” David asked, frowning.

“Y’know, tortured genius and all that.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Ignore him,”

“One minute!” Albert announced.

Race thought about texting Spot, but he didn’t want to interrupt his kiss, and the thought brought a sour expression to his face.

“Dude.” Albert elbowed him.

“What?”

“You look like you’re trying to shoot acid out of your eye sockets. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, shut up,” he grumbled. “I just wish Spot was here.”

“Thirty seconds,” Jack interrupted.

Race did his best to push aside his displeasure. He was  _ not _ about to be one of those boring bitches who did nothing but mope and complain when their s/o wasn’t around. He was his own, complete, independent person. Spot could kiss all the lesbians he liked, that had nothing to do with Race’s ability to have a good time.

“Twenty,” Albert said.

“Nineteen!” Race cheered, rolling off of the couch to stand up. “You sure you don’t want a smooch, Bertie?”

“Eighteen. I’m sure.”

“Seventeen. Even if I promise no tongue?”

“I don’t believe—sixteen—you.”

Race snickered. “Pinkie promise? Fifteen!”

“Fourteen! That’s what you said last time!”

“And you kicked me in the dick! I think that sets us pretty even!” Race replied indignantly, skipping thirteen.

Albert exclaimed in wordless irritation. “Eleven!”

“Ten!” Race grabbed one of those roll up party horns off the small pile they’d amassed on the coffee table.

“Nine. Do you want to get kicked in the dick again?”

“Oo, baby you know how I like it.” Race shimmied at him, and Albert groaned, but Race interrupted his retort by shouting. “Seven!”

“Eight!” Albert corrected, shoving Race away from him.

“Eight!” Race shouted as well, a beat off sync.

“I’m telling Spot you came on to me.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Race gasped, not at all concerned.

“Five.”

“Four,” he replied cheerfully, edging closer with his party horn at the ready.

Albert grabbed a mini-confetti cannon. “Three.”

“Two.” Race grabbed another party horn.

Albert grinned. “One.”

Race tried to blow both the party horns in Albert’s face at the same time, and of course failed, because it’s really hard to blow two party horns at once.

Albert started to laugh, but abruptly choked, eyes going wide. “Race,” he whispered.

Race tried again, but was silenced by Albert shushing him and batting the horns out of his mouth.

“What, what?” Race asked indignantly.

Albert grabbed Race’s chin and turned his head, forcing his gaze onto Jack and Davey, who were just breaking out of a kiss. Race gasped, smacking excitedly at his friend beside him.

Jack opened his eyes wide, looking awestruck at David before glancing at Race and Albert. David turned to face them as well. Race giggled, not even trying to hide that he was staring. A furious blush crept onto Jack’s face, and Davey smiled shyly, turning back to Jack.

Race never seen Jack like this before, and he was  _ delighted _ . He gave him a big thumbs up, mouthing ‘nice’, then Albert interrupted this display by smacking the back of his head.

“Let then have their moment. Jesus.”

David leaned in to kiss Jack again, and Jack responded eagerly, happily, clasping his arms around David’s waist. Race whooped, and Albert clocked him in the back of the head again.

Before he could get himself into any more trouble, his phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to check the banner on the screen.

“ _ Happy New Year, gorgeous <3 _ ” Then, as he was watching. “ _ I can’t wait to see you _ ”


	63. Gummy Worms and Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We wrote an entire gay sex scene without explicitly mentioning a penis to spite Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s smut, y’all.
> 
> UPDATE: We have decided to remove Archive warnings from this story, because some of them would amount to major spoilers in the future. However, this story DOES NOT contain underage or rape/non-con.

By the time Spot made it back to Aunt Beth’s house on Saturday night, he was thoroughly exhausted. His parents had stalled his leaving for as long as they could in a transparent attempt to make him stay one more night, so by the time he pulled into Beth’s driveway, it was nearing eleven o’clock at night. Groaning, he unbuckled his seatbelt and rolled out of the car, stopping to grab his suitcase out of the trunk before heading towards the front door. He didn’t even make it out of the driveway before the front door opened, and a screaming, blond and blue streak came hurtling towards him out of the house and knocked him into the snow.

“What the fuck!?” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around the blond and blue projectile anyway.

“aaa _ AAA!!! _ ” Race—who Spot had quickly realized it was—just screamed, with his arms flung tight around Spot’s shoulders.

Spot laughed. It was late, he was tired, it was fucking cold, Race was on top of him screaming, and he was very happy.

“Thank  _ God _ you’re back!” Race shouted, practically strangling him in his embrace.

“You’re telling me,” Spot grumbled, pushing Race off just far enough to get ahold of his face and pull him into a kiss. Race kissed him back hungrily, winding his fingers into the collar of Spot’s coat.

“Mm, baby, what are you doing here?” Spot asked, brushing his lips against Race’s as he spoke. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m sleeping over at Jack’s tonight,” he said, as if that was an explanation, and didn’t clarify before kissing him again.

“You— Mm.” Spot pushed him back a little. “That doesn’t—...” Then, he realized. “You told your parents you’re sleeping over at Jack’s.”

Race nodded. “Right.”

“Which really means I get you all to myself?”

A grin spread across his face. “Damn right, you do.”

“Ooh, you know what that means.” Spot leaned in as if to kiss Race again, but dodged at the last second. “You can help me carry in all my shit.”

Race whined indignantly, and Spot snickered, pushing him off.

“Here, you get my suitcase, I just have one other thing.”

Race grumbled nonsense, but got up and grabbed the suitcase anyway. Spot returned to the trunk of his car to retrieve his guitar bag. He had managed to sneak it out without his parents noticing. He slung it haphazardly over his shoulder and started towards the door.

Race grinned, following him. “You brought your guitar home?”

“No, I filled this bag with gummy worms.”

He gasped. “Are they for me?”

“Just go in the house, dingus,” Spot chuckled.

“I’m gonna be real disappointed if there’s not really any gummy worms,” Race replied, heading inside.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Spot retrieved the bag of gummy worms he had stashed in the front pocket of the bag and tossed it to Racex who squealed, delighted, dropping Spot’s suitcase in favor of catching the gummy worms. Man, he really had Spot wrapped around his little finger, didn’t he?

Just then, Aunt Beth came jogging down the stairs in pajamas with wet hair. “Sorry, Sean! I thought you were going to be a little later, or I would have waited to shower.” She pulled him into a damp hug.

“Don’t worry about it,” Spot replied, smiling, “though I can’t believe you left Tony unsupervised in your house.”

“Well, he promised not to steal the fine silver, so I figured he’d be okay for twenty minutes,” she teased.

(“CV po-po gu” —Andy’s dog, who speaks Simlish, apparently)

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Have you met him?” Spot turned back to Race and poked him in the ribs.

Race squawked indignantly. “I only steal fine  _ china! _ ”

Beth chuckled fondly. “Well, boys, I have an early shift in the morning, so I’m gonna go to bed. I just wanted to make sure you got here okay.” She patted Spot on the shoulder. “Tony’s welcome to spend the night. Just try to keep quiet, hm?”

Spot snorted. “Yeah, you don’t know him  _ at all _ .”

Beth laughed and bid the boys goodnight before heading up to her room.

“Your aunt is awesome,” Race said, grinning.

Spot grinned back. “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.”

_ These two people care about me more than my parents ever could. _

Race kicked at Spot’s ankle, picking up his suitcase again. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

They made their way up to Spot’s room, and Spot directed Race to set his suitcase down at the foot of the bed, carefully propping his guitar up in the corner. “I’ll put my shit away tomorrow—got better things to do right now.”

Before he’d even completely turned back around, Race was already crashing into him in an almost desperate kiss, half missing his mouth, but hardly seeming to care.

Spot locked an arm around his back and held him close, clutching the back of his shirt in a tight fist, while the other hand found its way into Race’s hair. Race pressed himself closer against Spot, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his hands wandered aimlessly over his shoulders, chest, and sides.

Finally, Spot moved his hand to Race’s chest and shoved him back. “Higgins, if you are not in my bed in the next ten seconds, I swear to god—”

Race obeyed eagerly, backing up to sit down on the edge of Spot’s bed.

Spot let out a low breath.  _ Mine _ , he thought.  _ I had a crush on him for years, and I finally made him mine _ . “Clothes off.”

A spark lit up in Race’s eyes as they narrowed. “It’s no fun if  _ I _ do it.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

The little bastard grinned. “So whatcha gonna do about it?”

“Get back in my car and drive back to Philadelphia,” Spot replied, sexual frustration rising by the second.

Race snickered. “You’re not a good liar when you’re horny, Sean.”

Spot frowned. He crossed to Race and brushed a hand through his hair. “If you don’t like me telling you what to do, I’ll stop.”

Race frowned as if confused. “What? No, I like it.” He took Spot’s hand and twined their fingers together. “You can’t expect me to just listen without motivation, though.” An edge of teasing had crept quickly into his voice, and Spot felt cold fingertips brush his skin where Race had snuck his free hand just under the hem of his shirt.

“In that case,” he jerked Race’s head back by his hair, “clothes.  _ Off _ .”

Race gasped sharply, and a hint of a grin hooked the corner of his mouth. He kept his eyes locked on Spot’s as he moved both hands now to unbutton Spot’s jeans, intentionally misinterpreting the command.

Spot’s breath caught in his throat. It felt very nice to have Race’s hands on him like that, and he very easily could have given Race his way here, but if they were going to play this game, Spot intended to win. “One of us is gonna keep his hands to himself, gorgeous. I suggest you make it you.”

“Or what?” Race shot back, that little grin pulling wider now.

“I’ll keep  _ my _ hands to  _ my _ self.”

Race pouted, and let his hands drop. “Well, what  _ do _ I get to do?”

“Take. Your damn. Clothes. Off.”

He rolled his eyes, smiling again, and moved to pull his shirt off. Score one for Spot.

He let go of Race’s hair and took a step back to get a better view as Race grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it off over his head, dropping it to the floor by his feet as he stood up to unbutton his jeans. Spot bit his lip, raking his eyes over Race’s body. He wanted nothing more than to mark it all up, let anyone who looked know that Race was spoken for, but seeing as Race was supposed to be at Jack’s house, he would have to be strategic. His neck and collarbones would be off limits, but surely Race could hide his shoulders for a couple days.

Race kicked his jeans off, grinning again as he saw Spot’s wandering eyes. “See somethin’ ya like, babe?”

“Come here.” Spot beckoned with a finger, and Race stepped closer.

Spot pulled him in and pressed a kiss to his shoulder before biting down, not too hard at first.

“Ah!” Race gasped, surprised—but not displeased—by the slight pain.

Spot hissed, “ _ Quiet _ ,” before continuing to work on Race’s shoulder, nibbling and sucking until blood began to pool beneath the skin.

Race whined and pressed closer, slipping his fingers through two of the belt loops on Spot’s jeans to pull him up against him. Spot hummed appreciatively, pressing a firm kiss to Race’s new bruise before burying his face in his neck, placing his hand on the other side to hold him close.

“I like telling you what to do,” he exhaled. “Makes me feel like you’re mine.”

Race pulled his hands away in favor of sliding his arms around Spot’s waist. “Mmm, I like being yours.”

“Well, then,” Spot hooked a finger beneath the waistband of Race’s boxer-briefs. “Take these off and get in bed.”

Race cupped Spot’s jaw in his hands and tilted his face up to meet his lips in a sweet, lingering kiss before backing up to slip his underwear off, and climb back onto the bed. Spot swallowed hard, struggling to pull together a coherent thought as he looked at his boyfriend, bare and waiting for him on his bed. Race was beautiful, every single inch of him.

Spot pulled off his own shirt on the way over to the bed, tossing it in a careless heap on the floor. He climbed onto the bed below Race and leaned in to kiss his lips, then his cheek, then his neck. Race sighed happily, bringing his hands to roam across Spot’s chest and sides. Spot continued to trail his lips down Race’s body, to his shoulder, to his chest, to his stomach, stopping to press a slow, gentle kiss to the scar on his side. Race shivered slightly under his touch, bracing one hand on the bed behind him and leaning back, giving Spot easier access to his body to do as he pleased. Spot gently bit down on Race’s hip, and Race gasped lightly, arching up towards him.

Spot pinned Race’s hips back down to the bed. “Ask me.”

“Spot,” Race whined, trying to shift again.

Spot smirked. “Ask for what you want, baby. I want to hear it from your pretty little mouth.”

“I want you to put  _ your _ pretty little mouth to better use than just teasing me,” Race shot back.

“Don’t get sassy with me, when I’m about to suck you off.”

“Thought you liked it when I’m sassy?” Race teased, wiggling a bit in his grip again.

Spot pulled one of Race’s legs up onto his shoulder and nuzzled at his inner-thigh, smirking. “Mm, I don’t think I’ve ever said that.”

“Some things don’t have to be said to be true” Race retorted, matching his smirk.

_ Oh, I’m gonna wipe that smirk off his face _ , Spot thought, and he put his mouth on him. Race took in a wavering breath, moving his other arm to brace on the bed behind him and oh-so-slightly arching his hips again. As pretty as he looked like that, Spot closed his eyes and focused on making him feel good. Making Race feel good had, after all, quickly become one of his favorite pastimes. As he worked, Race’s little breathy noises quickly pitched down into moans. The damn boy never really could be properly quiet, or properly still. Even now, he continued to move and shift under Spot, despite efforts otherwise.

Spot rolled his eyes, pulling off him and shooting him an unamused look, despite being fairly amused. “Beth told you to be quiet.  _ I  _ told you to be quiet.”

“I  _ am _ being quiet!”

“Next time, I’m gagging you.”

Race giggled. “Oh no, not that!”

“Noted,” Spot mumbled, taking him in his mouth again. He moved a little faster this time, gripping Race’s hips to  _ try _ and keep him from moving, which he knew by now was a hopeless task.

Race let his head fall back, shutting his eyes as he barely even tried to contain another moan. “ _ Shit _ , baby, that feels good.”

Score two for Spot. He hummed appreciatively, taking as much as he could in his mouth. He could tell Race wasn’t going to last much longer, seemingly forgetting that he was meant to keep quiet as he continued to whine and moan. He shifted in Spot’s grip, arching his hips forward again, trying to push himself further into Spot’s mouth.

“I’m close,” he announced breathily, as if Spot wasn’t already well aware. “I’m— Fuck, god, Spot, don’t stop. Don’t—” Race broke off into another moan, and quickly dissolved into meaningless babbling, broken by staccato gasps and whines. Finally his incessant wiggling stopped as his body tensed, back arching, and he came with a cry.

Spot swallowed (because spitters are quitters) with a self satisfied smirk. Race looked incredible like this—eyes closed and brow furrowed slightly, lips parted, the barest sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, chest rising and falling quickly and heavily. “That wasn’t quiet.”

“Oh, shut up,” Race managed through a breathy laugh.

Spot raised himself up to press his lips to Race’s forehead, almost shaking with the amount of willpower it took to not pin him to the bed and fuck him until he could never walk again. Race brought a hand to cup Spot’s cheek, tilting his face up to catch Spot’s lips with his own. Spot sighed happily, wrapping his hand around the back of Race’s neck and tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Race hummed in appreciation, opening his mouth wider so he could brush his tongue across Spot’s bottom lip, and Spot took the opportunity to explore Race’s mouth with his tongue, playing absently with the curls at the nape of his neck. Race sighed happily, wrapping both of his arms around Spot’s middle and dropping fully to his back, dragging Spot down on top of him.

Spot groaned, sorely regretting not taking his pants off earlier. “I love you,” he murmured against Race’s lips. “Fuck it. I love you.”

Race made a quiet, startled sort of noise, and pulled back, trying to meet Spot’s eyes. “Wait, really?”

Spot frowned. What kind of a response was that? “Yes, really. You think I’m gonna lie to you about—?”

Race didn’t give him a chance to finish his sentence, rather stopping him with another eager kiss. Spot froze for a second, bewildered, before responding. Race kissed him passionately, playing along Spot’s jaw with his fingers, and then bringing them up to tangle in his hair.

Spot had never been the type to drop the L word on just anyone. Words weren’t his love language. He always figured, if he had to  _ tell _ his partner he loved them, he was doing something wrong. He would never say it unless it was really, deeply true, and it was really, deeply true with Race. Spot had gone and fallen in love with him, and he didn’t regret it at all.

Race broke away from Spot’s mouth then, moving to latch onto his collar bone. Spot took a moment to catch his breath, zeroing in on the delicious feeling of Race’s body under his, Race’s mouth on his skin, before pushing himself up, sitting back on his knees to unbutton his jeans. Race whined at the separation, and Spot growled lowly in the back of his throat. His sex brain was starting to take over, and it was telling him to take Race right then and there and not a moment later, but he couldn’t—he was still wearing pants, for one, and they didn’t have what they needed.

“Okay, don’t—don’t move,” Spot told Race, trying to be commanding but landing just on the cusp of desperate. He climbed off the bed to retrieve a condom and lubricant from the bedside table drawer, then shed the rest of his clothing.

“Come baaack,” Race whined again.

Spot chucked the bottle of lube at his head, and Race dodged ineffectually. “What the hell!?”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!”

“Gimme somethin’ better to do with it!” Race retorted.

“Tell me, Tony,” Spot climbed back on top of him, “do you want this?”

“Mm, fuck yeah, I do,” he replied, grinning, reaching to run his hands up Spot’s torso.

Spot smiled. “Then be good.”

Race pouted. “You gonna make it worth my while?”

“Don’t I always?” Spot asked, running his hand down Race’s thigh. He reached for the bottle of lube and squeezed a good amount onto his fingers. There was a fine line between not hurting Race and just making a mess.

“I guess I’ll be good then.”

“Good boy.”

Race gasped lightly as Spot slowly worked one finger inside him, then another, letting his eyes flutter shut and biting his bottom lip. Spot watched his expression carefully for any sign of genuine discomfort or pain, but let’s face it; Race was more than a little experienced. He let out a soft, breathy moan as Spot added a third finger, and Spot’s mind short-circuited.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are like this,” Spot said, gently brushing his thumb over Race’s cheek. “You’re perfect.”

“Mmm.” Race opened his eyes to look at Spot through his lashes, smiling crookedly. “How ‘bout you cut the talk and fuck me, huh?”

“Ask nicely,” Spot retorted, even as he shifted them into position, hooking his arms around Race’s legs. One plus of dating a dancer—they’re bendy as fuck.

Race wiggled, shifting eagerly closer. “ _ Please? _ You’ve been gone forever, I  _ miss _ you.”

Spot nodded,  _ very _ glad Race didn’t decide to sass him this time. He leaned his forehead against Race’s and pressed inside, biting his tongue to keep from moaning too loud, still trying to keep an eye on Race’s reaction even though his mind had gone to static. Race’s body was incredible— _ Race _ was incredible—and Spot couldn’t make much sense of anything besides the two of them, together.

Race, the goddamn idiot, had no such reservations about moaning too loud, and he did, eyes rolling back a bit and back arching. Spot would have reprimanded him—again—if he hadn’t been so damn hot, Spot could probably come just looking at him.

“Fuck,” Spot breathed heavily as his hips came to rest against Race. He pressed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to Race’s neck.

“O-oh.” Race let out another moan, tossing his head back. He giggled breathily. “Fuck, I always forget how big you are.”

Spot rolled his eyes briefly. At some point, he had to assume Race was just stroking his ego. “You okay?” he asked nonetheless.

“Mmm, yeah,” Race nodded, “it’s good.”

“Good.” With that affirmation, Spot began to move.

Race groaned appreciatively, rolling his hips with Spot, and matching him as he picked up a rhythm.

Spot’s breath caught in his throat. Race was a fucking stunner, especially like this, all desperate and breathless, letting Spot have his way with his body. “ _ God _ , Race,” Spot choked out, letting go of Race’s thighs to grab his hands instead, pinning them to the bed on either side of him.

Race laced their fingers together. “Kiss me,” he demanded breathlessly, and Spot kissed him hard, letting go of one of his hands to wind his fingers into his hair instead.

Race kissed him back hungrily, catching Spot’s lower lip and rolling it between his teeth when they paused for breath. Spot pulled his hair, and Race gasped as his head jerked back. He arched his back again, pressing his body closer against Spot. Taking advantage of the new angle, Spot pressed his mouth to Race’s neck again, gentle so as not to leave any marks, and quickened his pace. Race moaned again, wrenching his other hand free from Spot’s so he could run both his hands up Spot’s sides and over his shoulders, then down his back, scraping lightly with his nails. Spot’s breath stuttered again. He was not going to last much longer if Race kept doing  _ that _ , being all perfect and sexy and soft and...himself.

“Fuck, you’re so good, Anthony,” Spot murmured breathlessly, “so good for me. I—” His words dissolved.

Race moved his hands up into Spot’s hair, grabbing and pulling to move Spot’s head so he could capture his lips. “I love you,” he murmured between feverish kisses, so quiet and breathy Spot wasn’t certain those were actually the words he’d said.

Spot groaned lightly, sliding an arm under Race’s back and holding him close against himself. Race slid his hands back down, getting a grip on his shoulders with his arms looped under Spot’s. 

“Fuck,” he breathed as he moved away from Spot’s mouth, trailing open mouthed kisses across his jaw and down his neck.

Spot gripped the bedsheets with the hand that wasn’t under Race, twisting it in his fist as the world got warm and blurry. He closed his eyes, crushing Race against him. He was so close, he just needed a little more. Race bit down lightly on Spot’s collar bone, and Spot choked back a sound—unlike Race, he was capable of being quiet. His movements stuttered, and he came a few moments later, moaning softly, nearly collapsing on top of Race. Race kept himself arched up against Spot for a moment longer before relaxing completely onto the bed with a slow exhale. Spot pressed a slow, gentle kiss to his temple, and he hummed contentedly, re-settling his arms around Spot.

“I missed you,” Spot breathed slowly.

“I missed you, too.”

Spot kissed him again before getting up to get rid of the condom and get pajamas. “Did you bring clothes, or do you need to borrow some?” he asked.

“Yeah, I brought stuff,” Race replied, but moved to get under the covers rather than going for the overnight bag that Spot now noticed sitting off to one side.

Spot smiled in spite of himself. “Baby, it’s January. You’re gonna freeze.”

“Mm, you can keep me warm.”

Goddamnit, how was Spot supposed to deny him anything when he was all curled up under his blankets and adorable? He wasn’t. So he went back over and climbed into bed, pulling Race into his chest and kissing his hair.

Race hummed happily again, curling up in Spot’s arms, and let out a long, contented sigh. Spot gently stroked his back as exhaustion began to creep back in. He felt better, just being back in New York, in Aunt Beth’s house, away from his parents, and he felt  _ much _ better with the boy he loved in his arms as he fell asleep.


	64. “Whatever You Say, Shrimp Captain”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race is stressed, Spot’s confused, Jack and Albert are also stressed, and Mr. and Mrs. Higgins are super annoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I (Andy) graduated college on Sunday. I am done with school.
> 
> F O R E V E R.
> 
> So hopefully I’ll be able to throw more time at these stories.

Race drifted awake slowly, fighting it as soon as he became aware it was happening—sleeping in on a Sunday was an opportunity not to be wasted. Of course, as soon as he became aware it was happening, it was too late, and he was awake. He groaned, rolling over and shutting his eyes tighter, hoping to get back to his dream with its weird treetop world and the food delivery company he worked for that used hippogriffs and zip lines. Naturally, he remained awake, and he soon became bored of pretending otherwise, so he gave up and flopped over onto his back, accidentally smacking Spot’s chest with the back of his hand.

Spot groaned loudly. “The fuck was that for?”

Race winced. “Sorry.”

Spot huffed and rolled over towards Race, onto his side. Even mostly asleep, Spot managed to be devastatingly attractive, with his eyes closed gently and his lips slightly pursed. A smile quickly crept onto Race’s face as he remembered the events of last night, but it was just as quickly replaced with a small, thoughtful frown. Spot had said he loved him. Why was that scary? It was a good thing. Race loved  _ him _ , o at least, he was pretty sure he did. Granted, he had been pretty sure he was in love before, and this was totally different than that. Spot felt solid and secure, like Race could fall and Spot would catch him. Shit, he already had, several times. Spot had seen Race at his absolute worst and stayed. If that wasn’t love, what was?

Race had to convince himself a couple times not to poke Spot awake and flat out ask him. Instead, he settled in to fidget, trying and failing not to dwell on the ‘what if’s of how he could accidentally drive Spot away.

“What time is it?” Spot murmured after a few minutes.

“Time for you to get a watch,” Race replied reflexively.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Spot rolled back onto his back and reached for his phone on the bedside table. He squinted in displeasure at the time, swiped at the screen, then smiled and started giggling.

Race frowned curiously. “What?”

Spot handed him his phone, which was open to a text conversation with Beth.

“ _ You were right, he is loud _ ,” and a laughing emoji.

Race sputtered out a laugh. “Yikes.”

“I told you to be quiet,” Spot said teasingly, taking his phone back and returning it to the table. “Did you listen?”

“I tried!” Race protested, knowing full well that he didn’t really try.

Spot laughed, “Bullshit,” and closed his eyes again. “S’fuckin’ hot, though.”

“Yeah, I try.” Race felt a little crooked smile pull at his lips again, and he leaned in to press a light kiss to the corner of Spot’s mouth.

Spot hummed, reaching blindly for Race’s hand and Race laced their fingers together, laying his head down on the pillow again. They lay like that for a while, until eventually Race couldn’t bear it anymore, and he gripped Spot’s hand a little tighter, wiggling it back and forth a bit to get his attention. “Hey, Spot?”

“Mm?”

“Did you mean it? Yesterday, when you said you love me?”

Spot cracked an eye open to look at him, and Race continued quickly, flushing and dropping his gaze. “Don’t worry about it, if it was just an ‘in the moment’ sort of thing.” He was trying desperately not to seem too out of whack about it, but in truth his heart was in his throat. It had happened before, where he was the only one to fall, and had ended badly every time. The first boy who ever told him he loved him had said it during sex, and later, when he hadn’t said it again, and Race asked, he brushed it away as ‘just something people say, sometimes’.

Cautiously, Spot responded, “I mean it, Tony.”

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Race said. It definitely wasn’t, but he was desperate not to come on too strong, though it was probably way too late for any hope of that. “I know I’ve said it a few times, but I can try and chill if it makes you uncomfortable. I’m not great at ‘chill’, but I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated or anything, ‘cause you’re not.”

Spot frowned. “Baby, what—”

“I’ve just been feeling it out, y’know?” Race hurried on nervously. If he kept talking, Spot couldn’t say anything bad. “You feel different from everyone else—like a good way—and I’m tryin’ to figure out what that means, and shit ain’t real if no one knows about it, right? So the whole ‘I love you’ thing. But you really don’t have to say it back if you don’t want to, or I can stop, or whatever.”

Spot was silent, still frowning in bewilderment, and Race’s heart sank. He should have just left it. What’s that old saying? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth? He pressed his lips together tightly, determined not to work himself up into tears, and took a breath.

“I’m sorry, I’m freaking out for no reason. It’s not a big deal. I know I can be a handful, it’s a lot, I just—”

“I have two hands.”

Race’s tirade came crashing to a halt, and he was actually stunned silence for a moment before stuttering into laughter.

A smile flashed briefly across Spot’s face before returning to a frown. He reached out to brush Race’s curls out of his eyes. “I mean it. I promise.”

“No I trust you,” Race assured him, “I just—”

Just what? He certainly didn’t want to get into talking about any of his exes right then, and the lack of ‘I love you’s that went with them.

Spot rolled onto his side again and pulled Race into his arms. “Come here.”

He went willingly, curling towards Spot and resting his forehead against his. He closed his eyes, taking another breath as his nervous energy—mostly—subsided.

“Is this the bipolar talking, or is something else going on?” Spot asked.

“Nothing’s going on,” Race assured him, even though it was sort of a lie.

Spot, for his part, didn’t look like he believed him at all. “Anthony,” he began seriously, in a strangely open tone of voice Race hadn’t heard much from him before, “you are smart and funny and sweet and talented and beautiful, and I would be  _ crazy _ not to love you.”

Race could feel his cheeks heat up, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I love you, too.”

Spot smiled back, a genuinely happy sort of smile.

“This isn’t a prank, right?” Race asked, mostly teasing.

“See, I should tease you right now, but I’m not sure you could handle it,” Spot said. “Of course it’s not a prank.”

“Shut up I can handle anything!” Race argued, honestly grateful for the reassurance.

“Sure,” Spot snickered, rolling onto his back and pulling Race into his side. “What time do you have to be home?”

Race shrugged. “Whenever.”

“Good.” Spot gently stroked the side of Race’s arm, sounding back on his way to sleep.

“You still sleepy?” Race asked gently.

“It’s, like, seven-thirty on a  _ Sunday _ .”

“Roll over,” Race shoved at Spot’s shoulder, “I wanna be the big spoon.”

He had expected a protest or an argument, but instead, Spot did so without so much as a word, pulling Race’s arms around him as he went.

Race chuckled, cuddling up against his back. “No fight, Mr. Tough Guy?”

“Nah. You won’t tell.”

“Bitch, try me, I’ll tell everyone.”

“No you won’t,” Spot said, “because you love me.”

Race pouted and nuzzled at the back of Spot’s neck. “What, you don’t want me to be proud that I got you?”

“ _ I’m _ proud, baby.” Spot sighed contentedly. “You’ve got me wrapped around your little finger.”

“Yeah,” Race snickered, bracing for an attack, “‘cause you’re too short for any other finger.”

Sure enough, Spot reached over his shoulder and thumped him on the head, not hard enough to hurt.

Race wailed, laughing. “Hey!”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Whatever you say, shrimp captain.”

“Oh, you are on thin ice.”

* * *

Eventually, after a sleepy afternoon together, Race figured he’d best go home and texted Jack to come pick him up. The agreement was an eight-piece KFC bucket meal in exchange for cover and shuttle service, and Jack was nothing if not an honorable businessman.

“So,” Jack began knowingly as they made their way from KFC to Race’s house, “how was Spot?”

“Ugh,” Race slumped in his seat theatrically, “fantastic.”

“Is he taking good care of you?”

“Whether you mean that as an innuendo or not, the answer is yes.” Race sat up straight as he remembered he hadn’t told anyone yet. “He said ‘I love you’.”

Jack, who had just taken a drink, introduced the steering wheel to his Dr. Pepper. “He did!?”

Race nodded eagerly, beaming.

“Just...outta the blue?”

“I mean no? Sorta? I said it a couple weeks ago, but like, I’m dumb and I just say things. He seemed serious, or he said he was, anyway.”

Jack nodded, tight-lipped and laser-focused on the road.

“What?” Race asked, disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm.

“Just...be careful, okay?” Jack glanced at him. “I don’t wanna see you get hurt.” He continued quickly, before Race could butt in, “I know you like him, and he cares about you. That much is obvious. But you’ve got a soft heart, Race. Take care of it.”

Race frowned, liking this reaction less and less by the word. “We both know I don’t really do ‘careful’,” he grumbled.

“Race, look, I’m happy for you,” Jack assured him. “Really, I am. I actually think Spot’s a good guy, and you’re good together, which is part of the reason I’m worried about you.”

“What’s that mean?”

Jack cringed. “I don’t think we should talk about this, Race. I’m happy for you. Let’s leave it at that.”

“No come on, you brought it up, that means you wanna talk about it,” Race insisted.

“I  _ didn’t _ bring it up, but if you  _ must _ know, I’m worried it won’t work out the way you think it will, and you’ll be crushed,” Jack said, still focusing on the road instead of Race.

Race sputtered. “I’m eighteen!  _ Nothing _ works out the way I think it will! So should I just not do anything, ever!?”

“I never said that! I said ‘be careful’!”

Race folded his arms, scowling out the windshield. This was definitely not the conversation he’d been looking for. He was excited and happy Spot had said he loved him. At least  _ one _ of them knew what they were talking about.

Jack took a deep breath before speaking again. “He’s not going to stay, you know.”

The words felt like a punch to the stomach.

“With  _ me _ you mean.” Race’s frown deepened.

“I didn’t say—”

“No, I get it.” Race spoke over him angrily. “No one else has stayed, so why should he?”

“I  _ mean _ he’s not going to stay in New York, dipshit.” Jack raised his voice to be heard. “He’s not going to fall so in love with you that he gives up on his plans of going into the military, and don’t even try to pretend you’re not thinking it, because I  _ know _ you, Race, and I know you are. He is not going to stay, and the sooner you come to terms with it, the more you might actually have a chance with him.”

“I could go with him,” Race said, and it sounded even stupider aloud than it did in his head.

Jack shook his head. “No, you couldn’t. You literally couldn’t. Even if you joined the military with him, you couldn’t guarantee they’d send you the same place. That’s not how it works.”

Race was close to crying now and far from happy about it. He brushed the back of his hand roughly over his eyes. “Shit, man, why did I have to go and fall for him? Why do I fall for  _ everyone? _ ”

“Like I said,” Jack pulled to a stop at a stop sign and, with no one behind them, put the car in park, “you’ve got a soft heart. It’s great for everyone else and sucks for you.”

Still frowning, Race shifted uncomfortably. “Yo, can we, like,  _ not _ just sit, parked, in the middle of the road?”

Jack put the car in reverse and haphazardly parallel parked in front of someone’s house. It wasn’t a whole lot better, but at least they weren’t just  _ in _ the road. Race sighed unhappily, and began to fidget with his hair. “I dunno what I’m supposed to do about this,” he said, and it came out a lot more hopeless than he anticipated. “Like, am I supposed to just dump him and run, now that I know he’s gonna go join the military?” He continued before Jack could answer. “I can’t do that; that would be so shitty. Plus, I really don’t want to.”

Jack sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to do this, Race. He loves you, yeah? That’s a good thing.”

“Well, now it isn’t!” Race argued. “Now it makes everything worse and more complicated! I  _ definitely _ can’t just back out out of nowhere if he loves me back!”

Now, Jack frowned. “Would you want to? You said it yourself, Race, that would be so shitty.”

“No, no of course I wouldn’t want to. I  _ don’t _ want to.” He laughed, more upset than amused. “I recklessly throw myself into shit, not out, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Jack sighed again. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to bring you down. I really hope this works out for you.”

Race didn’t know what else there was to be said. “Yeah,  _ hope _ ...”

“Come on, let’s get you home.” Jack put the car into gear and pulled back out into the road.

* * *

Jack: Mayday fucking mayday

Albert: What?

Jack: Spot told Race he loves him.

Albert: What the fuck

Albert: What did he do?

Jack: I don’t know man. I told Race to be careful and he had a fucking meltdown on me.

Jack: if this doesn’t work out, I’m afraid there won’t be that many pieces left to pick up

Albert: Fuck

Albert: I’m gonna kill him

Jack: He hasn’t done anything wrong?

Albert: Dude this WON’T work out. He’s gonna leave, remember?

Albert: He’s gonna break our boy’s heart

Jack: Man, if you fuck this up for Race, he’s gonna be so pissed at you

Albert: Relax, I’m just gonna talk to him

Albert: Give him some perspective, maybe put the fear of god in him, nice friendly stuff

Jack: if you make this worse I will shave your head in your sleep

* * *

“I’m home!” Race announced, as if there was anyone else would barge into the Higgins House and flop face first into the couch.

“Welcome home, bud,” Mr. Higgins said as he and Mrs. Higgins made their way in from the hall. He took a seat in the armchair, and Mrs. Higgins leaned against the side. “How was Jack’s house?”

Race rolled to his side on the couch and sat up. “All good, nothing special.”

“You left your meds here.”

Race cringed lightly. “Whoops, my bad.”

“I texted you, but you didn’t respond,” his mother chimed in. “I just figured you were distracted, so I called Ms. Larkin.”

_ Well, shit. _

“Tony?”

Well, there was no bailing at this point. “Yeah...?”

“You weren’t at Jack’s house, last night. Where were you?”

Did Medda not say anything to Jack? Did Jack just not warn him!?

“Uh...” Shit, there was no helping it. “I was at Sean’s.”

Mrs. Higgins raised her eyebrows slightly. “Sean’s back from break?”

“Yeah,” Race answered, dropping his gaze to avoid either of theirs. “I wanted to surprise him.”

“That’s fine,” Mr. Higgins said, though his hard tone of voice suggested it was very much not, “so why didn’t you tell us you were going to Sean’s house to surprise him?”

“Because I knew you’d say ‘no’.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know that. Maybe we’d say you’re an adult and can spend the night with your boyfriend if you want to.”

Race huffed. “Yeah, right.”

“Don’t talk to us like that,” Mrs. Higgins snapped.

By now, Race had settled into his usual defensive corner of the couch. He tossed his hands up in frustration. “So you want me to just accept that  _ maybe _ you’d let me go, despite all the evidence to the contrary? You can’t just change your mind for convenience sake, to make it so I’m the one being unreasonable!”

“That’s not even what this is about!” Mrs. Higgins said, raising her voice slightly. “We don’t care that you spent the night with Sean. We don’t. We care that you lied to us.”

“I only lied cause I know you hate my boyfriend!”

“We don’t  _ hate _ your boyfriend!”

“Right, no, of course not,” Race huffed. “You‘re just worried, cause you think he’s a bad person, and dangerous, and whatever.”

“Once again, Anthony, this is not about Sean,” Mr. Higgins said.

“Yes it is!” Race argued.

“This is about you not being where you said you were! We didn’t raise you to be a liar, and we didn’t raise you to be disrespectful!”

“I lied cause I knew you’d say ‘no’!” Race said again, knowing they were about to fall into a pointless and circular argument about lying and motives and trust and what not.

“I don’t care why you lied, Anthony!” Mr. Higgins exclaimed in clear exasperation.

“You just said that’s what this is about!”

Mr. Higgins sighed heavily, scrubbing his hands down his face, and Mrs. Higgins stepped in to clarify.

“We care  _ that _ you lied, not  _ why _ .”

Race crossed his arms. “Well, I dunno what else you want me to say.”

“Why don’t you start by telling us what  _ you _ think your mother and I should do about this?” Mr. Higgins suggested. “Put yourself in our shoes.”

Rade sighed. “I dunno—ground me again?” He wasn’t very interested in this little thought experiment and didn’t see much point to it. He had lied again, lying was wrong, and his parents were unhappy. Boom, there you go.

Mrs. Higgins huffed. “Tony, this isn’t like you.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” he insisted again. “I lied about going to see Sean, ‘cause every other time I’ve asked, you’ve said no. So now I’m in trouble for lying, so next time I’ll ask, and you’ll say no, and then I’ll just end up lying about it again, ‘cause I’m not gonna lose what time I have left to be with him, just ‘cause you guys don’t like him.”

“Anthony, listen to me.” Mr. Higgins leaned forward in his chair. “You are eighteen years old. You can  _ move out _ , if you want.” He pointed towards the stairs. “You could walk down those stairs, say ‘I’m going to have sex with my boyfriend’ on your way out the door, and we are not going to stop you.”

Race pressed his mouth into a thin line. He didn’t really know what to say to that.

“Is it really too much to ask for you to be honest with us?” Mr. Higgins asked. “Really.”

“I guess not,” Race mumbled.

“Tony...” Mrs. Higgins began gently, glancing briefly at her husband. “How would you feel about seeing Hannah as a family, one of these days?”

Race frowned slightly. “What for?”

“Well, you tell us. The last few months you’ve been sneaking around, you’ve been lying to us...or maybe we’ve just been catching you, now.” This last bit seemed to come as a bit of a realization to Mrs. Higgins, and she didn’t look happy about it at all.

“I don’t like lying to you guys...” Race offered as a guilty and evasive confirmation.

“Good,” Mr. Higgins grunted, standing. “We don’t like being lied to.”

Again, Race had nothing to say, staring quietly at the floor from his corner of the couch.

Mr. Higgins ruffled his hair as he walked past, on his way back to the office, and Mrs. Higgins took a step forward. “Think about therapy, okay, sweetie?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“We love you, no matter what. Don’t ever forget it, okay?”

“I know, Mom. I love you too.”

She smiled sadly. “Don’t lie to us again, Tony.”

Race kept his mouth shut. Assuring her he wouldn’t was, more likely than not, a lie in itself. He had no way of knowing what the future would bring.

She sighed unhappily, like she knew what was going through his head, and continued towards the office after Mr. Higgins. Race climbed off the couch and headed upstairs. It had been such a nice morning, and afternoon, and now he just wanted to kick something.

As soon as his door closed behind him, a text buzzed in on his phone. He flopped onto his bed, wiggling around to pull his phone out of his pocket.

The message came from Spot. “ _ Fuck I’m an idiot. I forgot to give you your Christmas present _ ”

Race giggled. “ _ What, something more than gummy worms and dick? _ ”

“ _ Get higher standards, baby _ ”

He giggled again. “ _ Yeah, I’m tryin _ ”

“ _ Thanks for coming over last night _ ”

“ _ please, you couldn’t pay me to stay away _ ”

“ _ I never would _ ” Another text came in immediately. “ _ I kind of love you, remember? _ ”

Race felt a swoop in his stomach at the words, and he felt stupid for a moment, but brushed it away. This  _ was _ exciting. This was new and amazing, and he loved it. He loved  _ Spot _ , and he was gonna make sure that was a good thing for as long as it could be.


	65. Somewhere to Come Back To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most stressful dinner of Spot’s life.

Monday afternoon, Race walked down the stairs. “I’m going to have sex with my boyfriend,” he called, on his way to the door.

There was a brief pause, during which he could only imagine his mother let out a long-suffering sigh. Then, Mrs. Higgins called from the kitchen, “Be safe. Tell Sean I said ‘hi’...not during— You know. Okay. Bye, sweetie.”

Race cringed, very uncomfortable with this micro conversation. He walked over to peek into the kitchen. “Actually I’m going to give him his Christmas present… We sorta forgot over the weekend...”

“Oh...” Mrs. Higgins blinked a couple times. Geez, she didn’t have to look so  _ surprised _ . “Well,” she gestured to the Crock Pot on the counter in front of her, “I’m making enough stew for a small army, if you'd like to invite him over for dinner...?”

Now Race was about equally surprised. “Oh. Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Mrs. Higgins smiled weakly. “We  _ don’t _ hate him, Tony. I promise.”

Race returned the smile tightly. “ _ You _ might not...”

“Your father doesn’t, either.” Her expression turned a little teasing. “That’s not what Jesus would do, remember?”

He couldn’t help a quiet, amused snort. “Right, course not.”

“I’ll see you later, sweetie.”

“Mkay. Bye, Mom.” And he headed back for the door.

* * *

Once parked in Spot’s driveway, Race ground out the butt of his cigarette in the empty Altoids tin he used as an ashtray in the car. He was still stressed out from the conversation with his parents the previous afternoon, and from the now looming awareness that, even if he and Spot  _ were _ in love, it didn’t really matter, ‘cause Spot was still leaving…but the nicotine in his system helped him feel better, and seeing Spot would be an even better distraction. He got out of the car and grabbed the little gift bag with Spot’s present inside off the passenger seat before heading up to kick at the door in lieu of knocking.

“Just a second!” Spot called from inside, and a minute or two later, he opened the door, quickly ushering Race in out of the cold. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Race greeted him, smiling.

“Sorry. Lizzie was throwing a tantrum, and I had to put her back in her cage.”

“She’s just mad that you like me better,” Race teased.

Spot raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“You’d better!”

Spot chuckled, grabbing a small box off the counter and tossing it underhand to Race. “Merry Christmas, drama queen.”

Race fumbled, but caught it, and offered Spot his gift in exchange. “Merry Christmas,” he chuckled back.

Spot leaned back against the wall. “So are you a ‘see who can get theirs open fastest’ kinda guy, or you like takin’ turns?”

“Normally the first, but we can take turns,” Race replied, sticking his tongue out.

“Fine.” Spot gestured to him. “You go first.”

Race happily tore into the wrapping on the little box, excited to see what was inside. What he found looked like a blue, metallic cross between a pen and a lighter, with a short charging cable. He snorted, amused. “You got me a vape?”

“Yeah,” Spot said. “S’not good for you, but like, I’m pretty sure it’s better for you than smoking. Besides, I don’t like the smell of cigarettes, so it’s really a gift to myself.”

“Oh shit, that’s...”  _ totally against my aesthetic _ — “...actually really thoughtful and nice.” Race laughed. “Thanks, babe!”

“Well, don’t act so surprised!” Spot laughed with him. “I can be thoughtful and nice.”

Race stopped laughing with a slight cringe as Spot turned his attention to the gift bag in his own hands, and Race reached to take it back. “How ‘bout we rain check on yours? I sorta got distracted, so it’s super last minute—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Spot said, catching Race’s hand. “S’the thought that counts and all that, right?”

“And it’s the count that thoughts, vampires, yeah,” Race agreed hurriedly, Spot’s words bringing to mind one of his favorite dumb little comics. He put his new vape down to redouble his efforts to take back the present. “It’s super shitty, though. I should get you something better.”

Spot leaned in to place a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. “Like I said, don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Nooo, I’m really bad at presents,” Race whined.

Spot set about opening the gift anyway, ignoring Race’s protests as he pulled a flimsy, wallet sized rectangle, wrapped in tissue paper, out of the bag. Unwrapping this revealed a stack of construction paper note cards, all stapled together, with the top one labeling them as ‘Boyfriend Coupons’.

Spot grinned. “What are these?”

“They’re stupid,” Race groaned.

Spot’s grin widened as he began to flip through the stack, which Race had filled with a wide variety of coupons including, but not limited to, ‘Free Cuddles’, ‘Clothes Swap’, ‘One (1) Shower Together’, an Uno reverse card taped to an otherwise blank notecard, ‘Let’s Fuck In The Teachers’ Lounge’, ‘One Free Argument Won (but only if it’s a dumb, petty one)’, ‘Go Away Race’, a mute button sticker taped to another blank notecard, ‘Give Me Back My Hoodie’, more ‘Free Cuddles’, ‘Blowjob In The School Locker Room’, and a badly drawn game show type wheel with different restaurant names in each slot.

“This is...fucking adorable,” Spot said.

Race groaned louder. “Shut up, it’s dumb.”

“It’s  _ adorable _ ,” Spot repeated, reaching out to pull Race into a one-armed hug. “Thanks, baby.”

Race rolled his eyes, but draped his arms around Spot’s shoulders regardless. “Merry Christmas, sorry I suck at gifts.”

“You don’t suck at gifts.”

“Dude, I gave you the sort of shit a toddler gives his parents. Well, except mine has, like, sex n’ stuff.”

The sound of paper tearing, then Spot backed up and handed Race ‘One Free Argument Won (but only if it’s a dumb, petty one)’.

Race gasped as if betrayed, but laughed and held his hands up placatingly. “Fine, you win, I’m the best gift-giver of all time.”

“That’s my boy.” Spot winked.

Race rolled his eyes, half at Spot, and half at the flutter in his own chest at the wink. Stupid.

Spot placed his stack of coupons on the counter and started towards the living room. “You wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Sure. Race followed after him. “Oh, Mom said to ask if you want to come over for dinner? She’s making some sorta stew.”

“Oh.” Spot paused for a moment. “You want me to?”

“Of course I want you to, don’t be dumb,” Race chuckled.

“Then sure.” Spot took a seat on the couch and held out his arms for Race

Race, ever the eager, horny bastard, climbed happily into Spot’s lap, facing him with his knees on either side of him, and draped his arms over his shoulders, leaning in to kiss him. Spot let out a slow breath and relaxed, placing his hands on Race’s waist and holding him.

Race hummed happily and broke the kiss, leaning back a bit so he could look at him. “I missed you.”

“Over break or since yesterday?”

“I’m gonna say ‘both’.” Race shifted sideways off of Spot’s lap, turning to sit next to him, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll let Mom know you’re coming for dinner.”

Spot nodded, casually tossing his arm over Race’s shoulders and Race happily cuddled up to his side as he sent a text to his mother, confirming dinner plans.

“Do you actually want to watch something, or...” Spot trailed off suggestively.

Race shot a grin sideways at him. “What are my other options?”

“We could turn on the TV and not watch it,” Spot teased.

“Ooh, sounds interesting,” Race snickered, shimmying his shoulders.

Spot chuckled and turned his head, resting his forehead against Race’s temple. “You’re cute.” He pressed a kiss to Race’s temple.

“Oh, are we gonna talk about me instead?” Race snickered some more. “Cool.”

“If you want.” Spot tilted his head down and to the side to kiss Race’s neck.

Race let out a quiet exhale, allowing his eyes to droop almost closed. When Spot kissed him, it felt like like tiny splashes of fire—like when you let a sparkler burn too far down, and the little starbursts hit your hand, a small shock, so hot it almost feels cold.

Race was no stranger to physical pleasure. He was, as anyone knew, a total slut, and he had been for as long as he knew it was even possible. Physical intimacy had never been a big thing for him, meaning-wise. He’d had enough hurt in his life to decide he wasn’t going to waste possible pleasure by hemming it in with meaning and details. If something felt good, then why not go for it? Race had the highest body count of anyone he knew, and he was far from ashamed of it. He’d slept with strangers, he’d slept with acquaintances, he’d slept with boyfriends, he’d slept with friends, hell, he’d even slept with a girl once.

But Spot...Spot felt different. And that made him feel silly.

Maybe he didn’t actually feel different, maybe it was just romanticizing and wishful thinking—that desperate reach for the overblown idea of capital ‘L’ Love—but even if it was just silliness, it was some damn nice silliness.

“Mm, come here.” Spot twisted his body towards Race, hooked one arm around his back and the other under his legs, and pulled him into his lap bridal-style.

Race laughed, looping his arms around Spot’s neck. “What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ comfy,” Spot said, running one hand up Race’s back to play with his hair and grabbing the remote, turning on the TV with the other.

Race shifted to settle more comfortably in Spot’s arms. Things were quiet for a moment, and then he lightly elbowed Spot in the stomach. “Why’d you decide you love me, ‘stead of just like me?”

“I don’t know, Race. I didn’t  _ decide _ anything,” Spot said, absently flipping through channels on the TV. “Guess I just think my life’s a whole lot better with you in it.”

“Your life can be better with someone without you being in love with them,” Race protested.

“Don’t overthink it, baby.”

“Too bad, I already have,” Race retorted, meaning it as a joke, even though it was true.

“Well, stop.” Spot met Race’s eyes. “I don’t just  _ say _ that sorta thing, Tony. I care about you. I want you safe and happy, and I’m gonna do my damndest to make sure you are, a’right?”

Race smiled softly in return. “A’right.”

Spot turned back to the TV and continued flipping through channels, still playing with Race’s hair with the other hand. Race sighed quietly and cuddled against Spot’s chest, curling his noodley self up tighter to better fit in his boyfriend’s lap. He wasn’t particularly interested in watching anything that was on, but he was happy to just exist with Spot. Really, that was what he wanted—for him and Spot to be together. Being wherever, doing whatever, he just didn’t want the them-ness to stop.

* * *

“So, Sean, how was your winter break?” Mrs. Higgins asked as she sat down at the dinner table.

Spot cringed—it sort of looked like a smile, but Race knew better. “It was great, Mrs. Higgins. How was yours?”

She smiled in return, more genuinely. “Oh, it was lovely. Always good to have family time.”

Spot’s eyes widened slightly in that ‘oh god kill me now’ way for a split second before he sat down.

“Well, I know Tony is glad you’re back Mr. Higgins said, and to his credit, it sounded like he meant it more in a ‘despite what a good time you must have had while you were gone’ way, as opposed to a ‘though I’m not’ way.

“Yeah,” Race agreed. “My tap shoes are my favorite present, but Spot’s a close second,” he teased.

“Yeah, how could I ever compete with tap shoes?” Spot shot back.

Race snickered, ”I’m glad you understand.”

“I dunno, you might stand a chance if you learned how to dance,” Mrs. Higgins suggested with a playful shrug.

Spot laughed. “For the sake of every man, woman, and child in New York, I think I’ll have to pass on that.”

“Football and dancing are very similar!” Race argued, and Mr. Higgins nodded in sage agreement. “Like fishing and bowling.”

“Riiiiight.” Spot nodded. “You know, my favorite part of Swan Lake is when the swan chick tackles the prince. It’s breathtaking.”

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins laughed, and Race grinned, almost smug that his parents seemed to be genuinely enjoying a conversation with Spot.

“You play football, Sean?” Mr. Higgins asked, when the laughter died down.

“Used to,” Spot answered, “back in Philadelphia.”

Aww yes, it was all coming together. If Race could get his parents to take a proper interest in Spot’s life and get to know him, they had no choice but to realize how amazing he actually was.

“So what brought you back to New York?” Mr. Higgins asked casually. It was, after all, a casual question...or, at least, it would have been for anyone else.

Spot didn’t hesitate. It probably wasn’t his first time answering that question. “I like it better here, wanted to start getting settled instead of trying to move right after high school.”

Mr. Higgins raised an eyebrow. “But you’re going into the military.”

Spot did hesitate this time, but only barely. “Guess everyone needs somewhere to come back to.”

Mr. Higgins shrugged, seemingly satisfied with this answer. “Fair enough. Shall we say grace?”

Spot looked at Race with the wide-eyed panic of someone who had never said grace in his life and didn’t know how. Race quickly illustrated by clasping his hands together at the edge of the table in front of him, and bowing his head slightly, looking up to make sure Spot did the same. He did, nodding quickly in confirmation first.

Mr. Higgins said grace as usual, with Spot awkwardly echoing ‘amen’ a beat late, but Mrs. Higgins cast him an understanding and encouraging smile. He smiled nervously back at her, then at Race, a sort of puppy-like ‘did I do good?’ look about him. God, he was cute. Race smiled and gave back a short nod of affirmation.

Spot waited for Mr. and Mrs. Higgins to begin eating before he did, stopping after his first bite to politely say, “This is very good, Mrs. Higgins.”

She thanked him, and—in classic Mrs. Higgins style—offered to copy the recipe for him to take home to his aunt.

“Mom, oh my god, other people know how to cook, too,” Race groaned.

“It’s an easy recipe,” she protested, “I just thought I’d offer, in case—”

“In case you’re a better cook than Spot’s aunt?” Mr. Higgins teased.

Mrs. Higgins blushed a tiny bit, frowning at him, though there wasn’t any venom in it. “I just like sharing.”

“Well, my aunt’s a nurse, so she doesn’t have much time to cook,” Spot told them, and Mrs. Higgins’ face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Oh, well, this is a Crock Pot recipe! It would be perfect! She can come home from work to a nice warm meal—”

Race and Mr. Higgins exchanged an affectionate, long-suffering look.

“Run, Sean; she’ll try and pawn off the whole cookbook,” Mr. Higgins warned him, and Mrs. Higgins shot him a reproachful look.

Spot chuckled, though it sounded like more of a formality than anything. Reaching for his glass of water, he accidentally knocked it over onto the floor. “Oh shit, I—” He faltered, as he apparently realized he had just cursed. “Fu...dgesicles. I am so sorry.” He picked up his glass and put it back on the table at lightning speed.

Race bit his tongue to keep from laughing. ‘ _ Fudgesicles _ ’.

Mr. Higgins waved away Spot’s apology, getting up to go grab a dish towel. Spot stared after him, then turned to Mrs. Higgins. “I’m really, really sorry, Mrs. Higgins, I—”

“Don’t worry, Sean. It’s just water,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

It took a second for why Spot  _ was _ so worried to connect in Race’s head, and when it did, he didn’t like it. “Yeah, this is my place, remember?” he attempted in reassurance, or diversion at least. “I’m a human hurricane. We get lots worse than spilled water.”

“I still have nightmares about milk Jello,” Mr. Higgins confirmed, returning to the room and laying a dish towel down over the spill. “There. That spot will just be a little cleaner than all the rest.

“Sorry,” Spot repeated one last time, and Mr. Higgins, who was a master of Bible quotes and reading between the lines, fixed him with a serious gaze. “No harm done, Sean.”

Spot nodded hesitantly.

“I’ll grab you another water.” Mrs. Higgins offered, already picking up his glass on her way out of her seat.

“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins...”

“Of course, Sean.”

Okay, they had a minor interruption, but they were back on track. Spot seemed to be getting more comfortable as time went on, Mrs. Higgins seemed to be won over already, and even Mr. Higgins seemed to be giving Spot a genuine chance. Race was quite pleased with how things were going. He loved Spot, he loved his parents, and he was  _ not _ about to deal with them disliking each other, if this was going to last long term—not that it was, since Spot was leaving, but there’s no reason to worry about that right now. Right now, Spot was here. They had time.

* * *

“That was the most stressful dinner of my life,” Spot groaned, flopping backwards onto Race’s bed.

Race chuckled, moving to stand by the bed and shove at Spot until he sat up. Once there was space, Race moved his pillow up against the head of the bed and sat down, reaching to pull Spot back down and settling his head in his lap.

All the while, Spot continued, “There is only one thing more stressful than dealing with the parents of someone I’ve beaten up, and that’s dealing with the parents of someone I’ve fucked, and you, my dear, are both.”

Race giggled. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky  _ me _ ,” Spot shot back, looking up at him with a crooked smile.

Race wrinkled his nose up in lieu of a grin, working his fingers through Spot’s hair to absently massage his scalp. Spot sighed happily, letting his eyes fall closed.

“I love you,” Race said quietly, more of a sustained exhale than proper words. He wished things could just stay like this, and he also knew if he expressed that sentiment, it would start a fight, which wasn’t actually what he wanted right now.

Spot hummed. “I love you, too, gorgeous.”

“Oh yeah? What’cha gonna do about it?” Race teased lightly, not really trying to get him to do anything other than stay there, in his lap.

In fact, Spot just cracked an eye open, shooting him an amused look, before closing his eyes again and shifting slightly to get more comfortable. Race let out a quiet sigh, leaning back against his pillow and the bed frame. Shit, he could stay like this forever—sitting comfortably, Spot’s head in his lap, and his fingers in Spot’s hair, alternating between absently playing with the fluff and rubbing or scratching his fingers across his scalp. As much of a narcissist and hedonist as Race was, he had found out rather quickly that making Spot feel good made him feel good, too.

Unfortunately, he was also the shittiest little shit who ever shitted, so he couldn’t let the peace and quiet stretch on for too long before, “So...fudgesicles?”

“Shut your mouth, pretty boy, I fucking panicked.”

Race laughed, filing it away for later mockery. “Well, good job, I guess. Mom doesn’t like swearing.”

“Dude,” Spot chuckled, “my stepdad would have kicked my ass for that ‘shit’ I let slip.”

Race didn’t bother to hide his frown, since Spot’s eyes were closed. “To be fair, letting shit slip at the dinner table is gross.”

“Oh my god,” Spot sighed. “So, when were gonna tell me?”

Race frowned again, this time in confusion, and looked down at Spot. “What?”

“That you’re  _ twelve! _ ” Spot opened his eyes again and reached up to get ahold of Race’s head, ruffling his hair.

Race yelped, laughing as he recoiled and swatted at Spot’s hands. “What are you talking about!?”

“Shit jokes,” Spot snickered, “in every sense of the word.”

“Shut up, I’m hilarious.”

Spot sat up and turned around to kiss Race, deep and slow and Race responded happily, letting his hands drift up to clasp lightly behind Spot’s neck. When the kiss ended, Spot leaned his forehead against Race’s, smiling softly. “I should be getting home.”

Race huffed, pouting. “Or you could stay.”

“That might be pushing it.”

“I dunno; Dad is on some stint about me being an adult and making my own choices, so it might be okay.”

“Your dad and I had a pleasant conversation for the first time ever, tonight,” Spot pointed out. “I’m not risking it.” He kissed Race again, gentler this time. “You know I want to. I sleep better when you’re with me.”

“You should just stay forever, then,” Race suggested. “Tell your aunt that I’m good for your health.”

“You’re a lot of things, baby; I don’t think ‘good for my health’ is one of ‘em.”

He gasped in faux-insult. “Hey! I haven’t punched you for ages now!”

“No, but I think my blood pressure has skyrocketed,” Spot teased, patting Race on the cheek. He climbed off the bed.

Race pouted. “That could be purely coincidental.”

“I need to go home, baby.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, getting off the bed as well.

They headed downstairs. Spot offered a polite goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins on the way out. Race walked him to his car, and turned to half sit, half lean against the hood, near the door, so Spot couldn’t open it without hitting him with the side mirror. Spot gave him a look, like he knew exactly what Race was doing, and Race tried his best to look nonchalant and innocent. A look that—although deceptive—came quite naturally to him. Spot rolled his eyes and picked Race up, throwing him over his shoulder like a potato sack.

Race squealed, laughing. “Put me down, you big bully!”

Spot promptly tossed him into the nearest snowbank.

“Asshole!” Race accused as he got up, doing his best to dust the snow off himself and cursing his constant neglect to wear a proper coat.

Spot opened his car door, snickering. “Play stupid games...”

“You’re stupid.” Race kicked his legs awkwardly at nothing to knock more snow off.

“...win stupid prizes,” Spot concluded. He climbed into the driver’s seat, but didn’t close the door yet. “See you, baby.”

Race pouted heavily. “What, I don’t even get a kiss goodbye?”

“You do if you come over here and get it,” Spot replied, grinning.

Though he grumbled nonsense, Race went over anyway, getting a grip on the top of the frame of the car to lean in and kiss Spot.

“Bye, baby,” Spot said. “See you Thursday at the latest, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure,” Race replied and kissed him again.

“I’ll text you when I get home.”

Race huffed, straightening back up. “Fine. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” Spot closed the door and put the car in gear, waving as he pulled out of the driveway.

Race waved, then headed back inside, kicking his snowy shoes off into the corner. His parents were on the couch, doing that forced-casual, ‘we totally weren’t just watching out the window’ thing parents think they do so well but they don’t.

“Well, I thought that was lovely,” Mrs. Higgins said.

“The snowbank thing?” Race asked, eyebrow raised in amusement.

She blinked. “I meant dinner...”

“Right, of course.” He moved to sit in the armchair, slinging one of his legs up over the arm and settling in for a dissection.

After a super awkward moment of silence, Mrs. Higgins kicked lightly at her husband’s ankle. “Yes,” he responded immediately. “His best behavior was...very good.”

Race set his face carefully, two steps away from a glare. “Glad you liked the show. He’s practiced it a lot.”

Mrs. Higgins rolled her eyes and tossed her hands in defeat. “You two.”

“What!?” Race protested.

“We’re having a nice conversation about what a lovely dinner we had with Sean,” she said with an air of finality, almost like a command.

Mr. Higgins sighed. “Yes, it was very pleasant.”

“Sean had a good time, too,” Race agreed, like somehow that meant he won.

Mrs. Higgins smiled. “Well, we’ll have to have him over again, soon.” She stood up and headed towards the office. Conversation over, apparently.

Race sighed quietly. “I hope you guys like him, eventually,” he mumbled, tired of fighting about it.

“Tony?” Mr. Higgins began softly. Race looked up at him expectantly, and he appeared deep in thought. “What do you know about Sean’s family situation?”

Race shrugged, carefully nonchalant. “He lives with his aunt for now, while he’s in school. His folks aren’t fans of the whole military thing.” He said it like that was the reason, dodging the full truth rather than flat out lying, as he was pretty sure Spot didn’t want anyone knowing about his relationship with his parents—well, his mom and whatever you want to call the step-bastard.

Mr. Higgins nodded slowly. It seemed like there was more he wanted to say, but he was treading as carefully as Race. Finally, he said, “Someone taught that boy to solve problems with his fists.”

There was no proper answer to that, so Race stayed quiet.

“Hmm.” Mr. Higgins stood up and walked over to Race. He leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “You’re such a good, sweet boy, and I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks?”

“Tony, listen.” Mr. Higgins knelt down next to the arm of the chair. “I know it’s my fault things have been tense between you and me, the past few weeks, and I’m sorry. I take responsibility. You’re your own person, and while I may not agree with every decision you make, I need to be more supportive of you.”

Well didn’t that just make Race feel like a petulant piece of shit? “I’m sorry too, Dad. I know I’m not an easy kid.”

Mr. Higgins chuckled. “None of the best things in life ever come easy. I wouldn’t change you for the world.”

“Except for the crazy bits,” Race teased, but the words stung in his mouth on their way out.

“ _ Especially _ the crazy bits,” his father corrected him. He stood up again, then leaned back down to wrap his arms around Race’s shoulders. “You’re my favorite thing in the world, bud. I promise I’ll do better.”

Again, Race found himself unsure what to say.  _ He _ wasn’t about to promise to do better, all he’d done was defend his boyfriend, so he settled for just, “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, bud.”

Mr. Higgins disappeared down the hallway after that, and Race headed upstairs, hoping ‘doing better’ meant giving Spot a chance.


	66. New Year, New Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Season Two of Theories of Conflict. This is just a short chapter setting up three (3) upcoming subplots.

Race was glad to be back in school. Sure it was boring and easy, but it was something to do and an excuse to see his friends every day. “D’you think I should up the cost for my notes and stuff?” he asked Albert absently on their way to AP Bio.

“What—why?” Albert asked, and Race shrugged.

“I dunno. New year, new price?”

“Well, how’s your demand?”

“Pretty good. Folks are lazy as shit; no one wants to study.”

“Then I don’t see why not,” Albert said, “‘cept it’s gonna be awfully rough on those freshman.”

Race scoffed. “It’s real life economics, my dude.”

As they approached the classroom, he was  _ very _ glad to see Spot waiting outside, just like old times. He felt a smile light up across his face. “Hey loser!” he shouted across the hallway.

“Idiot!” Spot shouted back.

Race turned to elbow Albert in the ribs. “Dude, he just called you an idiot.”

“No, he didn’t.”

Race rolled his eyes. Refusing to give up his game, he turned to yell at Spot again, even though by now they were close enough that such volume was unnecessary. “You shouldn’t call Albert an idiot, he’s in AP Bio!”

“Albert has your shared brain cell, at the moment,” Spot retorted at a reasonable volume. He nodded towards the door. “Come on, we have to hurry if we’re gonna fuck up last semester’s seating arrangement so I can sit beside my boyfriend.”

Race grinned, sliding his hand easily into Spot’s, and ignoring the surly look on Albert’s face. He led his little crew over to the desks he and Albert had occupied the previous semester, only he took Albert’s old seat, and Spot and Albert claimed the seats on either side of him. He unloaded his backpack onto his desk, feeling rather self satisfied. With both his boys and a new notebook, he was ready to make AP Bio his bitch.

Until Mrs. McNamera announced partners for the spring semester project.

It wasn’t ‘Anthony Higgins and Alex Valdez’ that was a problem. He knew Alex. They weren’t friends, but she was smart and not a bitch. No, it was ‘Peter Hamming and Sean Conlon’ that gave him pause.

Peter was smart and not a bitch, too. He was also hot, and he and Race had had a thing for a week or two back in Junior year. Race couldn’t remember the specifics of why things had stopped, beyond he had gotten bored, and Peter didn’t really talk to him anymore.

Most importantly, though, Peter was hot.

And he was gay.

And he was Spot’s new project partner.

* * *

“You alright, baby?” Spot asked Race on their way to lunch. Race looked generally unhappy, and Spot didn’t know why. He has seemed fine, before class.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Race replied, a few lanes left of convincing.

Spot nodded skeptically. “Okay, well, we goin’ to the usual table? I’m gonna stop by the bathroom first, and I’ll meet you.”

Race nodded and continued down the hall.

“I‘ll be right there too,” Albert called after him, and Race waved in affirmation.

Spot started down the hall with the nearest bathrooms, which ran perpendicular to the one they were in. Albert headed for the bathrooms as well, but stopped a couple feet short and turned to face Spot, making sure to land right in his way. Spot took a step back, frowning.

“Jack told me you said you love Race,” Albert said flatly.

“Interesting,” Spot replied. “That’s weird, you know, it’s not like we’re a couple or anything like that.”

“Do you?” Albert asked, ignoring Spot’s sass.

Spot scoffed. “Yeah, I do. What’s it to you?”

“I’m just trying to watch out for him,” Albert explained with a shrug. “Racer gets attached real hard, real fast, and I’ve seen him get hurt before.” The look he gave Spot spoke pretty clearly to his expectation of seeing him get hurt again.

Spot responded with a patronizing smile, “Well, thanks for letting me know. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for anyone who wants to hurt  _ my boyfriend _ .”

“I’m being serious, Conlon,” Albert snapped. “I’ve seen him fall apart, and none of those jackasses even said they loved him. Now that someone has, properly, I swear to god—”

“Hold on,” Spot held up a hand to stop him. “You expect me to believe  _ none _ of Race’s fucking army of ex-boyfriends—shut the fuck up, he’s got a reputation, I know, and I don’t care— _ none _ of them told him they loved him?”

“Only the ones he badgered into it, and shortly after dumped him. So if this is just you sayin’ it to get him to shut up—”

“It’s not.” And now Spot was pissed at a lot more people than Albert. Jesus Christ, no wonder Race was so insecure.

“It  _ better _ not.”

Spot rolled his eyes. “Look, if I hurt Race, feel free to break all my fingers, but I love him. You’re his best friend; why do you find that so hard to believe?”

“He doesn’t have the most reliable taste in guys,” Albert replied.

“That ain’t my fault.”

“Didn’t say it’s your fault, said I’d beat your ass if you perpetuate it,” he shrugged.

“Man, what is your problem?” Spot finally just asked. “Seriously, have you done this all Race’s boyfriends, or am I special? Because it seems to me you—and Jack, for that matter—need to learn to mind your business.”

Albert took a step forward, snarling. “You’re  _ not _ special. That’s my point. What, you think you get bonus points ‘cause of the bit with the hospital? What do you think it was like growing up with him? I’ve had his back for  _ years _ , and I’m not about to back down just cause he’s all twitterpated over another guy who’s ‘different this time’.”

Spot sputtered into laughter. “‘Twitterpated’?”

Albert looked like he was about to explode. “You better be good to him, Spot,” he growled, and headed back towards the cafeteria.

Spot narrowed his eyes slightly at the floor in front of him as Albert brushed past him. “Wait.” He turned. “Are you jealous?”

Albert stopped and looked back at him. “What?”

“Are you jealous?” Spot repeated, a little slower for emphasis.

“Of  _ what? _ ”

“That Race wants to spend time with me instead a’ you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Albert scoffed.

It wasn’t a ‘no’, so as far as Spot was concerned, that meant ‘yes’. “Look, I get it. You’re best friends, and you don’t have a girlfriend, which makes Race your number one, and you don’t like that you have to share your spot—no pun intended. That’s not. My. Fault. S’between you an’ Race. Leave me out of it.”

Albert just huffed and rolled his eyes, turning back down the hallway.

* * *

Try as he might, all Race could focus on for the rest of the day was the fact that Peter Hamming now had the excuse—and, in fact, obligation—to spend time with his— _ Race’s _ —boyfriend. Worse than that, they were project partners for AP Biology in their senior year at Duane High School, which was  _ exactly _ how Race and Spot had gotten close. It just wasn’t okay at all.

Now, one of the more important reasons Race and Peter—‘Petey’, as he was called—hadn’t worked out was because they both played catcher, as it were. Petey had tried his hand at pitching, with subpar results. Unfortunately, that also meant Petey and Spot were, theoretically, sexually compatible, and Race wanted to die about it.

His last class was closer to the parking lot than Spot’s was, and it was damn cold outside, so Race waited just inside the doors, absently kicking around a piece of crumpled up paper he’d found on the floor. It was only a couple minutes before Spot walked up with a small, sweet smile on his face.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

“And he goes for the goal!!!” Race screamed, kicking the paper at Spot as hard as he could.

Spot’s smile turned into a grin as the paper bounced off his knee, and he laughed.

“Scooore!” Race threw both his arms up and wobbled towards Spot like some horrible crossbreed between a wacky, waving, flailing, inflatable tube guy and one of those big, vertical, spinning brushes in a car wash. “The crowd goes wild!”

Spot caught him, albeit a little awkwardly, and pulled him down for a quick kiss. “You’re a nut. Come on.”

“I’ll make  _ you _ nut,” he replied, without a spec of dignity or shame and somebody nearby groaned.

Spot just raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Promise?”

“You want a quickie in the car, or should we go somewhere?” Race shot back, mostly teasing, but not at all minding if Spot took him up on it. He could definitely use some real distraction.

“Name the place, baby,” Spot told him. “I’m there.”

Grinning, Race opened his mouth to answer, but the voice he heard was not his own.

“Hey, Sean!”

Race blinked and shut his mouth again, looking in the direction of the unfortunately familiar voice to see Peter Hamming headed their way. Lovely.

“Oh, hey,” Spot responded.

“Hey,” Peter said again as he got nearer. “Sorry I had to run right after class. We should exchange numbers?”

_ Or you could just, I dunno, get a different partner, or drop out of school, or die or something. _

Spot nodded, “Yeah, sure,” and handed his phone over.

“So are you two dating now, or something?” Peter asked, gesturing between Race and Spot.

Spot smiled again. “Yeah, few weeks now.”

“Oh wow, good for you,” Peter replied brightly, handing back Spot’s phone after punching in his number. ‘Good for you’? The fuck was that supposed to mean.

“Thanks,” Spot said, typing his name and info into a text to ‘Petey Hamming’. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow!” Petey waved to the both of them as he disappeared out into the parking lot.

Spot shoved his phone back into his pocket and shrugged. “Seems nice.”

Race scoffed. Great, now Petey and Spot were gonna become friends, and Petey was almost as bad of a flirt as Race was, and he was bound to talk shit, giving Spot reasons to dump Race. “Oh yeah,  _ real _ nice,” he sneered.

Spot frowned. “Woah, okay. What’s going on here?” He sounded more curious and worried than accusatory.

Race gestured vaguely. “We had a thing in Junior year. He’s a bit of a bitch.” He wasn’t, but right now Race definitely saw it that way.

“Ah, of course.” Spot seemed unconcerned by this information. He started outside, holding the door open for Race. “Well, lucky for you then, he ain’t your partner.”

Race rolled his eyes heavily. “Lucky me.”

Spot tossed his arm around Race’s waist as the door swung closed behind them. “So, where we headed?”

Race shrugged. “Wanna go loot a dumpster and look for stuff to set on fire?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Race pouted. “Oh come on, that was the fun part of that night!”

“And then you almost died! Sorry if watching my boyfriend die right in front of me doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time!” Spot argued, sounding like he was only halfway teasing.

“I guess it’s a good thing I had someone there to save me,” Race teased gently.

Spot leaned over to press a kiss to the side of Race’s head. “So where are we  _ headed? _ ” he asked again, more pointedly.

“You wanna find somewhere nearby, or go home?” Race grinned.

Spot opened his mouth to answer, but the voice Race heard wasn’t his.

“Excuse me. Are you Anthony Folliero?”


	67. A Race by Any Other Name

Anthony  _ Folliero _ . Spot had forgotten that last name, but as soon as he heard it, he remembered it clearly. Anthony Folliero was the little boy he’d had a crush on as a kid, who he’d bullied for it, and who had turned into the young man he had gone and fallen for.

There was something striking about the woman who had just used that old name. She looked to be in her thirties or so, with long, blonde curls and bright, blue eyes. She was, objectively, stunning. That wasn’t it, though. Spot could recognize a beautiful woman when he saw one, but they never struck him like this.

Race, on the other hand, was looking at her with something between suspicion and confusion. “Uh, yeah? I mean, sorta?”

The woman exhaled sharply, and she smiled at him.

That smile...

Spot knew that smile.

Oh my god.

She looked like Race.

“Hi,” the woman said. “I— I’m Gina. I’m—”

“You had better not say what I think you’re about to say,” Spot muttered quietly.

“—your mom.”

Oh,  _ hell _ no.

Race took a small, stumbling step backward, like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

Spot pulled him into his side. “Woah, lady, what the hell? You can’t just—”

“Why are you here?” Race cut him off, looking at her with a heartbreaking kind of confusion on his face.

She took a step closer, though remained an acceptable enough distance away. “I’ve been trying to find you, to connect—“

“ _ Why? _ ” Race asked again.

“I wanted to meet you! I want you to meet your brothers!”

Race choked on something that might’ve been a sob, or maybe a laugh. “My  _ what? _ ”

“When I had you, I was just a kid, and I was scared,” she plowed on. “I want to make this right. I’m so sorry about your father. I didn’t know—”

Tears had started to well up in Race’s eyes, and Spot could feel him shaking.

“You need to leave,” Spot said, stepping in between Race and the woman, Gina or whatever.

She frowned slightly, more concerned than angry or anything, focusing on Spot for the first time. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m the guy who’s about to kick your ass, that’s who I am,” Spot snapped. “You have no right to come here and fuck with his life. What’s wrong with you?”

She took a step back, surprised. “Wh— he’s my son, I just wanted to—”

“I don’t give a  _ fuck _ what you wanted! Can’t you see he’s upset? Leave him alone!”

Race had gotten a grip on the back of Spot’s shirt and was still hanging on tight.

“I—” Gina stammered, looking past Spot at Race again.

Spot reached behind him, backing up a little. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you home.”

Race nodded absently, but his eyes were locked on Gina, despite the tears brimming in them.

“I’m sorry,” Gina said. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Spot had the sudden urge to deck the woman, and he almost did. Instead, he turned, put his arm around Race again, and began leading him towards his car. For a second, it looked like Gina was going to follow them, but instead she just stood there in the parking lot, watching till they drove away.

Spot was fuming. He couldn’t believe— The fucking  _ nerve _ — He pulled into the Taco Bell parking lot a couple blocks away and stopped the car. “Tony, baby...”

There were tears falling freely down Race’s cheeks now, but he didn’t seem to notice them, looking blankly, furiously ahead. “What the  _ fuck? _ ” he said quietly.

Spot unbuckled his seatbelt to lean fully across the center console and hug Race.

Race leaned heavily into him. “I mean  _ why _ —” His words were breathless, sounding almost scared.

Spot always prided himself on being able to take care of his boyfriends, but right now, he had absolutely no idea what to do. “Tony, listen to me. That woman,” he said, “is  _ not _ your mom. Your mom is the woman who’s been takin’ care of you and loving you all these years.”

Race looked at him with a dazed sort of incredulity. “She ‘wants me to meet my brothers’???”

Spot had nothing to say to that. He put his hands on Race’s cheeks and wiped his tears away with his thumbs, but more came immediately to replace them. Race took a breath like he was going to say something else, but just exhaled roughly and took another couple breaths in too quickly.

“Hey, shh. Breathe,” Spot cooed softly.

Race exhaled in a sob, and curled forward, folding against Spot’s shoulder. One thing was absolutely for certain; Spot was going to kill that bitch if he ever saw her again. He cradled Race’s head against his shoulder and rubbed his back softly. Race knotted his hands in the fabric of Spot’s shirt and hung on tight as he sobbed.

“You wanna move to the back? I could hold you better,” Spot suggested.

Race shook his head, just hanging on tighter.

“Okay. Okay, what do you need?”

“Just don’t leave,” Race whimpered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Spot assured him. “Do you want me to take you home?”

Race sat up then, a look of horror on his tear stained face. “Dad is gonna lose his mind.”

Spot cringed. That was probably true.

“Fuck...” Race exhaled, deflating back into his seat.

Spot wished there was something he could say to make it better, but it seemed like this one was out of his hands. “Come on,” he took Race’s hand, “let’s get you home.”

* * *

Race was at least mostly composed by the time they pulled into his driveway. He said a distracted goodbye to Spot as he got out of the car and headed for the house with a promise to text him later.

“Hey, Mom?” he called as he opened the door.

“Yeah, sweetie?” she called from the kitchen, then appeared in the archway a moment later.

“Um...” He suddenly didn’t know what to say or how to explain what happened, even though it was fairly simple, and he felt tears pressing at the backs of his eyes again.

Mrs. Higgins frowned, hurrying over to him. “Is everything okay?”

“I uh...” He swallowed hard, trying to push down a small wave of not-quite-nausea. “My birth mom—” The words tasted vile, and he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Come on, sweetie, let’s sit down.” Mrs. Higgins guided him over and onto the couch. “What about your birth mom?”

“She showed up,” Race managed.

“She—” Mrs. Higgins’ eyes widened. “When? Where?”

“After school,” he said, brushing a few escaped tears off his cheek with the back of his hand. “Me an’ Spot were talking outside, and then she was just...there.”

Something dark flashed across Mrs. Higgins’ face. “Oh my— Are you okay? What did she want?”

Race shook his head. “I don’t know, she said she wanted to meet me, and she was sorry, and she wanted me to meet my brothers?”

“And...how do  _ you _ feel about that?” she asked, voice tight.

“I—” he broke off as more tears pushed through.

Mrs. Higgins pulled him into her arms and held him tightly.

Race curled against her, babbling now as he cried. “I don’t understand. Why now? Why at  _ all? _ I don’t  _ need _ her, I have you, and dad. I  _ have _ a family.”

“We’ll take care of it, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins assured him. “Don’t you worry about anything.”

But Race  _ was _ worried, and confused, and deeply upset. Why had she gone to all the trouble to find him? How could she think that was okay? She hadn’t wanted him back then, when she abandoned him and his father, so why on earth would he want her now?

His mother went on, “You don’t have to see her, if you don’t want to. It was wrong of her to just show up like that.”

Race stayed quiet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see her. His gut reaction was a big, heaping pile of ‘no’, but now that he’d calmed down from the initial shock, there was a bit of curiosity. Race figured every adopted kid wondered sometimes about their birth parents, and he was no exception. Plus, she’d shown up. That was...something. Either cruel or fortuitous—Race wasn’t sure which. At the very least, he got some questions answered. Did she look like him? Yes. You could probably put a ‘woman’ filter on Race and get a person who looked less like him than Gina. Did she ever think about him? Apparently, but what did that mean? What good did that do him? He already had his family, and apparently she’d moved on and gotten hers, too.

Did her other kids—Race couldn’t think of them as ‘his brothers’—look like him, too?

What was so special about them that  _ they _ were worth keeping?

Race leaned heavier against Mrs. Higgins—his mom, who had wanted him, who had kept him, who had loved him from the start. “She wants me to meet my brothers...” He had said that already, but that was the part that stood out in his head and stung the most. She had children.

“Do  _ you _ want to meet them?” Mrs. Higgins asked.

Slowly, Race shook his head. “I think I want to talk to her though...”

Mrs. Higgins hesitated for a split second too long to go unnoticed. “Okay.”

Race looked up at her. “Is...that okay?”

“That’s entirely up to you, sweetie. She’s your birth mother.”

He nodded a little. “Okay...”

Mrs. Higgins pulled back and kissed his forehead. “I’ll be behind you one hundred percent, no matter what you decide.”

“Thanks, Momma.”

It didn’t occur to Race, then, to ask her how  _ she _ felt about the whole thing. Even if he had, she would’ve certainly brushed it away, as ‘this is about how  _ you _ feel’. Mr. Higgins was just as quietly outraged and stubbornly supportive as his wife, when he got home, and even suggested they invite Race’s mother—“She’s not my mother. I  _ have _ a mother.”—for dinner one night, if Race wanted.

Later, after dinner, Mrs. Higgins suggested they go to the little, old fashioned ice cream stand down the street for sundaes and then watch a movie. Race agreed, more for the distraction and the safe, family feeling, than for any actual want of ice cream or a movie. He had a rough time paying attention, but it was comforting, sitting on the couch between his parents with an increasingly soupy banana split in his lap and Ghostbusters on the tv.

Going to bed was less comforting. He ended up just staring at the ceiling, cycling through emotions that he didn’t really have the energy to process and sliding blurrily through thoughts that wouldn’t really solidify, until eventually, just after midnight, he gave up and rolled out of bed. He ripped a piece of paper out of his notebook and scribbled ‘ _ gonna go to Albert’s _ ’ on it before heading downstairs and dropping the note on the kitchen counter on his way to the back porch door. Barefoot, he padded across the backyard, climbed over the fence—an act made comfortable and easy by years of practice—and headed for Albert’s house. He texted Albert their old code for ‘I’m out back, let me in’:

“ _ Wherefore art thou shithead _ ”

He watched as his message was delivered, then read, then looked up in time to see Albert’s middle finger appear in his bedroom window. Race flipped him off in return, even if he couldn’t see it.

A minute later, the back door opened, and Albert appeared, leaning against the doorframe. “Well, look who decided to grace me with his presence.”

“Hey, you busy?” Race asked. Stupid question, it was after midnight.

Albert scoffed. “Yeah, real busy. What’s the matter?”

“I’m kinda freaking out,” Race said. “My, uh...my mom showed up at school today.” It occurred to him that that sounded pretty normal. “My birth mom, I mean.”

Albert immediately straightened up. “Oh, shit.”

Race nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been sorta spacey all day, so I didn’t really think to mention it.”

Albert stepped back out of the doorway, leaving space for Race to come in. “What happened?”

“Me an’ Spot were heading for the parking lot, and she was just...there,” Race said, stepping off the porch and into Albert’s house.

Albert made a face as he closed the door. “Just like that?”

Race nodded, reaching up to absently mess with the curls behind his ear. “Yeah, she said she wanted to, like, ‘connect’, or something.”

“Bullshit,” Albert scoffed.

“Hah, just wait,” Race huffed. “Turns out, she didn’t not want kids, she just didn’t want  _ me _ . She wants me to ‘meet my brothers’.”

“What the actual fuck? Come on,” Albert grumbled, tossing his arm over Race’s shoulder. “Let’s go to my room.”

Race nodded, following willingly. They didn’t speak again until they were safe in Albert’s room with the door shut.

“It really freaked me out,” Race admitted, going to sit on the edge of Albert’s bed. “Like, I sorta just froze.”

Albert sat next to him, shaking his head. “Shit’s crazy, man.”

“She kept saying shit about ‘making this right’,” Race continued. “What the fuck does that even mean? What could she possibly do that would fix anything? I’m almost out of high school. I have a life. I have a family! I made it just fine without her, so why the hell is she coming back  _ now? _ Where was she eighteen years ago? Hell, where was she  _ eight _ years ago!?”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re eighteen,” Albert suggested. “I dunno how it works. Maybe some shit got unsealed.”

Images of a frog prince curse being broken, except the frog was a seal, rose up in Race’s mind, but he pushed the frankly hilarious thought away in favor of the more serious topic. “I dunno if she ever even, like, signed away rights to me or whatever,” he said.

Albert furrowed his eyebrows in thought. “She must have. You’da been getting, like, child support.”

“I dunno, maybe I was? It’s not like I ever talked to my dad about it, I was a kid.”

Albert shrugged. “Like, I said, I don’t know how it works. S’weird that you didn’t go to her when your dad died, if she didn’t, thought.”

“She must’ve, then.” Race shrugged, flopping over onto his back, onto Albert’s bed.

Albert fixed him with a serious look. “Are you okay, Race?”

“I mean...no?”

He sighed and laid down next to him. “You know, I’ll kill her if you want me to.”

Race couldn’t help a small laugh. “Yeah okay.” They lapsed into silence for a minute, then he sighed quietly. “Is it okay if I stay tonight?”

“Sure.” Albert shifted, moving his legs around to the foot of his bed so he could lay with his head on the pillow. “No spooning, though.”

Race pouted. “I thought you loved me.”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend for that?”

“Yeah, but he’s not here.” Race pouted more.

“Man, it’s so fuckin’ late. Talk about your birth mom or go to sleep,” Albert grumbled.

“It’s barely one o’clock!” Race disagreed.

“Goodnight, bitch.”

Race huffed, but quieted down anyway. He was just glad for the company, even if Albert was asleep. Things always felt more real if there was someone else there, too. Even if Albert couldn’t really relate, he was still  _ there _ . He’d always been there, always had Race’s back. He was family to Race, as much as the Higginses were.

A few minutes later, Albert had already fallen back asleep, out like a light (Race could always pinpoint the exact moment Albert lost consciousness, because his mega resting bitch face fell away). In his sleep, he rolled onto his side facing Race and tossed his arm over Race’s chest.

Race smiled softly to himself, shifting a bit to get comfortable. Stubborn and tough as he was, Albert had always had a secret soft spot, and Race was perfectly happy to let it shine through.


	68. Heavy Trauma and Family Drama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As many of you noticed, Theories of Conflict now has a [prequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24578365/chapters/59361262), so check it out if you’re in need of a little fluff. ;)

“D’you think she’ll show up again?” Albert asked Race as they pulled into the school parking lot.

“I don’t think she’d come hang around  _ before _ school,” Race replied as Albert found a parking spot. “Though I dunno.”

“I’ll walk with ya,” Albert offered, turning his Jeep off.

“My hero,” Race teased, unwilling to admit how nervous he actually was as he unbuckled.

They made their way up to the doors, where Jack and Spot were waiting, not talking to each other.

Race smiled, glad as always to see them. “Hey, guys,” he greeted.

“Hey,” they repeated in almost unison.

At least Jack and Spot seemed to be getting along, even if it was only for Race’s sake. On the other hand, Spot and Albert glared daggers at each other.

“How’s it goin’?” Albert greeted Spot stiffly.

Spot returned a fake smile. “Fantastic.”

Race quietly sighed. At least they were trying...sorta…

The four of them headed inside. Spot put his arm around Race’s back, and Albert clung tight to Race’s other side, with Jack on the other side of Albert.

“Guys, relax, it’s not like someone called out a hit on me,” Race joked, though he was honestly grateful for the protectiveness.

“You don’t know that,” Jack replied casually.

“Bitch, did you call a hit on me?” Race shot back.

“Well, you  _ were _ pretty handsy on Dave, New Year’s Eve.”

“Heyyy,” Race protested. “He was basically asking for it!”

“He was  _ not _ .”

“He was so! You just weren’t there!”

“I was there the whole time.” Jack reached around Albert’s to smack the back of Race’s head.

“Well, if I remember right,” Albert told Jack, “you were pretty lipsy on Dave, so.”

Race pointed at him accusingly. “See? You got no right to complain.”

“Excuse me!” Jack exclaimed. “Dave was pretty lipsy on  _ me _ , too! And I’ll have you know I’m taking him out to lunch on Sunday.”

“Are you allowed?” Race asked, frowning in bemusement.

“What do you mean!?”

“Isn’t his family all religious?”

Jack scoffed, “Yeah, they’re  _ Jewish _ . They do Saturdays. It’s called Shabbat.”

(Jack pronounced ‘Shabbat’ as though it rhymed with ‘rabbit’. Unfortunately, none of the others knew well enough to correct him)

“Oh, okay never mind then.”

They came to a crossroads—crosshalls?—and stopped, knowing they would have to split up.

“A’right, I’ll see ya at lunch,” Jack said in farewell, and he disappeared off into the crowd.

Albert and Spot stayed, locking eyes with each other for a moment, like neither of them wanted to be the first one to leave Race. Race cleared his throat awkwardly, and it occurred to him then that, even though it wasn’t at all a big deal, it might bother Spot that he’d spent the night in the same bed as Albert. It wasn’t even a thing, obviously; they might as well be brothers, but even so, Spot might want to know…

“Well, I’m gonna go to class,” Race said, almost expecting to hear an audible  _ snap _ when their attention broke from each other.

Albert nodded. “Okay, seeya.”

“Seeya later, baby,” Spot added quietly.

“Seeya,” Race replied, heading off down the hallway, feeling weirdly guilty, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong.

* * *

“Hey,” Race caught ahold of Spot’s arm on the way out of the AP Bio classroom. “Can we take a second before we go right to lunch?”

“Yeah, o’course.” Spot put his arm around Race and furrowed his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah fine, I just wanted to talk for a second.”

“Okay. Come on.” Spot ushered Race out into the hallway and in the direction opposite the cafeteria, to a small alcove near the bathrooms that was empty except for a water fountain. There, he leaned back against the wall. “What’s up, gorgeous?”

“So, I slept with Albert last night—“

Twenty thousand volts straight to the nipples would have been less shocking that the words that just came out of Race’s mouth. “You fucking  _ what!? _ ”

“Yeah, I was kinda freaked out yesterday, after school so I went over—” Race’s eyes widened, like he’d just realized what he’d said, and he stammered, trying to backtrack. “Nonononono, not like we  _ slept _ together, we just slept— Like in his bed, I mean.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Spot sighed, deflating against the wall.

“Fuck, no, I’m sorry,” Race said, cringing at basically every word out of his mouth.

“Let me get this straight.” Spot pressed his palms together and touched the sides of his fingers to his lips. “You an’ Albert slept in the same bed, last night.”

Race nodded.

“And you did not, in fact, have sex with him.”

Race shook his head, even having the good grace to blush a tiny bit.

Spot exhaled slowly, still reeling from the horror of Race cheating on him with Albert DaSilva. “Okay. Great.”

“I’m sorry,” Race cringed again. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Spot shook his head. “It’s good to have your heart restarted every now and again.”

“Sorry,” Race mumbled again, the word mostly lost in his cringe.

“It’s fine,” Spot repeated. “What did you want to talk about?”

“That.” Race shrugged. “We never really talked about like, me sleeping with my friends.” He held his hands out quickly, as if to catch something Spot hadn’t thrown at him. “Like,  _ sleeping _ sleeping.”

Spot chuckled breathily. “Racer, baby, I don’t care if you sleep in the same bed as your straight best friend.”

“What about my not-so-straight best friend?”

Spot groaned. “Babyyy.”

“I mean Jack,” Race explained, as if that wasn’t entirely obvious.

In all truth, Spot wasn’t crazy about the idea of Race spending the night with Jack. He knew Jack was hot, though not his type. Jack was also into guys and close to Race. Spot may have gone to great trouble to paint over his jealous streak, but it was still under there.

“Well, I’m not gonna tell you ‘no’,” he huffed.

“Do you...really think I’d cheat on you...?” Race asked, sounding suddenly hurt.

“No, of course not.” Spot reached out to him, straightening up off the wall a little bit, and put his hand on his arm. “I just don’t want you running off with some other pretty boy, is all.” The thought made Spot’s stomach churn uncomfortably.

“Okay, good,” Race replied. “I mean, yeah, I’m like, such a slut, but I  _ do _ have morals.”

Spot wiped his brow. “Whew, that’s a relief.” Race frowned, pouting, and Spot chuckled, placing his hand on the back of Race’s neck to pull him in for a kiss. “Love ya’.”

Race closed the distance between them willingly, and their lips met, gently at first, then a little deeper. Race draped his arms over Spot’s shoulders and moved closer to press against him.

“Get a room!” someone in the passing current of students yelled, and Spot flipped them off.

Race chuckled. “Let’s go to lunch.”

* * *

After school, Race waited just inside the doors again. He kept looking nervously out through the glass, scanning the parking lot for that infuriatingly unfamiliar woman, his mother, but he didn’t see her. Maybe she’d taken the hint and wasn’t going to come back, though this was almost even more upsetting than her initial appearance; would she really give up that easily? Whether he actually wanted her to or not, did she still not think Race was worth trying for?

Jack was the first to find him. “She here?”

Race shook his head. “I dunno. I don’t see her...”

“What’s she look like?”

“Like me,” Race said, and for some reason that made him sad.

Spot arrived next. “Is the coast clear?”

“No sign of her,” Race confirmed.

“Good.” Spot took Race’s hand, and Race twined their fingers together gratefully.

“Thanks, guys.”

“You know we’ve always got your back,” Jack said. “You’d do the same for me, if my birth mom showed up...you know, after we both freak out because she’s been dead for eighteen years.”

“Ghost squad.” Race nodded sagely.

Albert finally walked up on the group, having come from across the school. “What’s the plan?” he asked Race.

“I dunno,” Race admitted. “Honestly, I sorta want to try to talk to her, but if she’s not here...”

Spot raised his eyebrows. “You want to talk to her?”

Race shrugged. “I guess? If I don’t freak out again.”

“Well...” Albert sighed. “I guess we should go find out.”

Race sighed as well, steeling himself for whatever was waiting in the parking lot. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Jack and Albert opened the doors, and Spot ushered Race out. They really were like the Race Protection Squad™, and Race might have taken the time to enjoy it if he wasn’t so stressed out. He felt a little silly, heading out into the parking lot with his friends flanking him like a pack of Craigslist bodyguards. Especially since, at first glance, it looked like Gina—it was crazy that she had a name—wasn’t there. Then, Race caught sight of her, and his heart jumped into his throat. Spot caught sight of her too, and his grip on Race’s hand tightened. She saw them as well and smiled hesitantly.

“I think I’m gonna be sick...” Race mumbled, staring at her very much the way one might stare at a shark while cage diving.

“Want me to go tell her to fuck off?” Jack asked, getting in front of Race.

“Uh...no...” Race said, stuttering slightly in his uncertainty.

“It’s okay, baby, we gotcha,” Spot assured him.

Race nodded, squeezing his hand a little tighter. This was fine, he was fine, she couldn’t hurt him or anything, he was just rattled.

“Do you wanna talk to her?” Jack asked quietly.

Race took a slow, quiet breath and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

Albert spoke up. “You want us with you or you wanna go alone?”

“I mean, maybe hang back a  _ bit? _ ” He suggested, not wanting to go alone, but feeling like it might be weird to roll up with the brute squad.

Albert nodded. “You got it.”

“We’ll wait here,” Jack agreed as Race broke away from the group and headed over towards Gina—his mother.

Her eyes widened a bit as he approached, and she offered a small smile. “I...didn’t actually expect you to talk to me again.”

“I, uh, didn’t really talk to you the first time,” Race said, pushing his hands uncomfortably into his pockets.

Her smile turned a little sad. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you or...upset you.”

He shrugged. “Can’t blame me for being a bit surprised to see you. After all it’s been what, eighteen years?”

“Eighteen years,” she agreed.

“Yeah...” Race had no idea what to say to her, this woman in front of him,  _ his mother _ . What  _ could _ he say? ‘Hey, so why did you abandon me?’, ‘why did it take this long for you to come looking?’. None of that even came close to covering what he felt. The years of feeling that were stacked up inside, the years of questions.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” she said after a moment of uncomfortable quiet. “I wish I had known.”

“How did you find out?” Race asked, feeling slightly numb, the way he always did when the subject of his father’s death came up.

“When I decided to find you, I looked for him first,” she explained. “I never thought...”

“Why did you look?” Race asked, feeling tears starting to prickle behind his eyes. “If you never thought about us before, why now?”

She shook her head. “Oh, sweetie, I thought about you.”

Race cringed slightly at the term of endearment but stayed quiet, waiting for a real answer.

“It was your birthday, last fall,” she continued eventually. “Somewhere out there, there was a man that I had given birth to, and I— I had to meet him. I had to meet you.”

Race grit his teeth for a moment. “Right. Well...I’m Tony.” He moved to extend his hand for a handshake, but at the last minute lost his nerve, and reached up to twist at the curls behind his ear instead.

“Tony,” she said on an exhale, like he was something unbelievable.

Race couldn’t figure how he felt. Hearing her say his name—hearing  _ his mother _ say his name—was at the same time like a weight lifted off his shoulders and a punch to the stomach. What would life have been like, if she’d gone looking for him earlier? If she hadn’t left at all? Would things have been different enough that his father would still be alive?

“Who do you live with?” she asked.

“My mom and dad,” he replied stiffly.

Gina blinked a couple times. “Oh. You were...”

“Yeah, I got adopted.” He felt almost smug, saying it.  _ I did it. I’m lovable. I made it on my own, without you, and found other people to love me. _

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she said, and she actually kind of seemed like she was.

“Are you?” Whoa, yikes, where did that come from? Race cringed. “Sorry, I dunno what—...”

Gina shook her head. “You have every right, Tony. I messed up.”

He nodded, more for something to do than direct agreement, though he certainly did agree.

She took a breath. “I’m sorry, Tony. Is there any way you can forgive me?”

“I, uh...I dunno,” he answered truthfully.

She pressed her lips together tightly and nodded.

“Sorry...” Race had no idea what he was apologizing for,  _ she _ should be apologizing. She had, of course, but not enough. Race wasn’t sure there was enough time left before the heat death of the universe for her to apologize enough.

This would be so much easier if she was a bitch.

Guilt—over  _ what!? _ —and awkwardness gnawed at his stomach until he finally, impulsively asked, “Do you want to come over for dinner?”

She at least had the decency to look properly stunned. “I’d love that, sweetie.”

“Right, cool.” He already half regretted asking her. “I’ll ask my folks.” He pulled his phone out and almost dropped it as he swiped through to hit his mom’s contact.

As always, Mrs. Higgins answered quickly. “Hi, sweetie. What’s up?”

The back to back ‘sweetie’s from two different mothers was confusingly upsetting.

“Hi, Momma,” Race greeted, reverting to the childish name, as he always did when in any sort of emotional turmoil. “Can, uh, can Gina come over for dinner?”

“Gina?”

Race cringed. “My uh, my birth mom.”

“I figured,” she said gently. “Tonight?”

“Is that okay?” He found himself silently praying that she’d say ‘no’, but of course she didn’t. They had discussed this, after all.

“That’s fine,” she answered methodically, like she had prepared for this. “Tell her to be here around six-thirty.”

“Okay, cool,” he replied. “Thanks, Momma. Love you.” Though sincere, he said it a little spitefully.  _ See what you missed? See what you could’ve had? _

“I love you too, Tony. See you soon.”

The call ended. Race put his phone back in his pocket, and turned back to Gina. “She said it’s fine, you can come over at six-thirty.”

“Okay.” Gina nodded. She reached into her purse, digging around for a moment before retrieving an envelope and a pen. She quickly scribbled on the back of the envelope. “This is my phone number. If you’ll just text me the address...and, well, I wanted you to have this, anyway.” She held the envelope out towards Race.

“Oh, okay.” Race accepted the envelope.

She smiled politely, “Thank you, Tony,” and turned to get into her car.

“Yeah, see ya...” he replied, turning to head back towards his friends, still waiting for him on the steps.

“How’d it go?” Spot asked tentatively.

“She’s coming over for dinner,” Race replied through a cringe.

Jack gestured to the envelope in his hand. “What’d she give you?”

“Maybe it’s the eighteen birthday cards she never gave you,” Albert suggested, like a jackass.

This actually pulled a laugh out of Race. “Let’s hope they got money in them.”

He ripped the envelope open with his finger. There was only one piece of paper inside—a picture. He pulled it out and turned it over to look at it, and he could’ve sworn his heart fell right out of his chest.

It was his father.

Not all that much younger than Race’s blurry memories of him, he was sitting next to Gina, smiling and laughing. It looked like they were on top of a Ferris Wheel.

“Oh my god,” Albert said under his breath.

Race barely heard him, staring at the picture in his hand. He didn’t even realize he’d started to cry until a tear fell and hit the corner of the photo. Then Spot’s arms were around his waist, and Jack’s hand was on his shoulder.

Race looked up then, back and forth between Jack and Albert, feeling absolutely gutted in a horrible, wonderful sort of way. “I—...” he stammered, having no idea what he was even trying to say.

In the end, it was Spot who spoke up. “I guess that’s your dad?”

“Yeah...” Race answered, looking back at the picture.

“I don’t want to make this any weirder than it is for you,” Spot said, “but your dad was hot.”

And Race was laughing again, which just made him cry harder. Suddenly, he was in the middle of a group hug, and now he was just crying and clinging to his friends for dear life.

“We all love you so much, Racer,” Jack murmured, his voice muffled by something, Race didn’t know what. He was far too busy crying—and trying not to rumple the photograph—to give him a real answer.

It took him a few minutes to calm down. Seeing his mom,  _ talking _ to his mom, the prospect of her coming over for dinner and meeting his real parents, and then the picture of his dad? It was all too much. Thank god his friends were with him.

Spot rubbed his back. “You doin’ okay, Tony?”

“No,” Race replied thickly, with a watery laugh.

“We’re here for you,” Albert told him, “no matter what.”

“Thanks guys,”

Race wasn’t especially looking forward to having Gina over for dinner. Having her meet his mom and dad was bound to be a trip and a half and upsetting for all involved, but maybe this would be good. Maybe she could tell him more about his dad.


	69. Hehehe 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gina has dinner with the Higginses, or at least tries to.

“I’m home!” Race called, kicking his shoes off and dropping his backpack at the bottom of the stairs on his way to the kitchen.

“How was school, sweetie?” Mrs. Higgins asked, meeting him at the archway into the kitchen.

“Look,” Race said, ignoring her question and holding out the photograph.

She took it carefully in her fingers. “Oh, sweetie.”

“It’s my dad,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

She smiled sadly. “I know. I wish I could have met him.” She handed the photo back. “I know he was a great man.”

He was barely a  _ man _ at all. Hell, he must have only been sixteen or seventeen in the photo, and he was only twenty-three when he died. He never went to college. He never even graduated high school. He never got to have a life. All he had was his ‘topolino’, and all Race had was his ‘babbo’. And now he was gone, and all Race had were hazy memories. This was the first picture he’d ever even seen of his father. Vincent Folliero hadn’t left anything behind. Who would have thought he had to? He was twenty-three years old. Twenty-three fucking years old. He had so much more time.

“Oh, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins cooed quietly, brushing a thumb over Race’s cheek—ahh shit, he was crying again—before pulling him into a hug.

“It’s not  _ fair _ ,” Race said thickly.

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed, gently petting his hair. “Not at all.”

“I wish  _ he _ could come over for dinner, ‘stead of Gina.”

“Me too, sweetie.”

Race felt a little guilty wishing for his dad, like he always did, because to wish his dad was still around was—however inadvertently—to wish that he wasn’t with the Higginses, and that wasn’t at all what he wanted.

“I want both, you know?” he said, verbalizing his thought halfway through. “I wish I could have you guys  _ and _ my dad.”

“I know,” Mrs. Higgins assured him, basically reading his mind, as she often did. “It’s okay to miss him.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m not grateful.”

“I never have.” She pulled back, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek. “Do you remember the day you moved in here?”

Race nodded.

“We were so nervous. We had wanted a child for so long, and we had finally gotten approved to foster, and we had no idea what to expect. I was terrified.” She laughed softly. “And then  _ you _ showed up, and you were  _ perfect _ . You were so sweet and polite, and after you went to bed, I stayed up and cried on your dad’s shoulder for a while, because I already loved you more than anything I ever had.”

“Aww, mom...”

She kissed his cheek. “You are my baby. You have always been my baby. It just took us a little longer than most to find each other.”

“I love you too, Momma.”

Then the oven beeped, and the moment was over, but it left Race feeling a bit better. Even after the adoption papers went through, it had taken a while for Race to really believe that things with the Higginses were permanent, but once he’d really, truly settled in, nothing felt more secure. They were his family, his  _ real _ family, no matter what the circumstances.

“Does Dad know she’s coming?” Race asked his mother as she put the lasagna into the oven

“I called him after you and I talked,” she confirmed with a nod, and Race nodded as well.

“Okay, cool.”

Closing the oven, Mrs. Higgins turned back to Race. “How are you feeling about all this? Is there anything you need me to do for you, tonight?”

Race shrugged, moving to hop up and sit on the edge of the counter. “I dunno. The whole thing is still super weird.”

“It’s happening really fast, isn’t it?” she sympathized, coming to stand by him. “Tony, I want you to know that if you decide you want to stay in contact with Gina, or have a relationship with her, I support you completely. If you decide you don’t, I’ll support that, too. I don’t want you to feel bad. This is about what  _ you _ want.”

Race nodded, unsure, and after a pause said, “You know that  _ you’re _ my real mom, right? Just cause she showed up outta nowhere doesn’t make her special.”

Mrs. Higgins smiled. “I know, sweetheart. We’re a family—you and your father and I. Nothing in the world is going to change that.”

* * *

The closer it got to six-thirty, the more jittery Race became. He tried to help Mrs. Higgins with dinner, but just got in the way. Even so, she didn’t shoo him out of the kitchen as she usually would have.

When Mr. Higgins got home, Race’s nerves got the better of him, and he began to fish for excuses. “Do you think this is too weird?” he asked. “She gave me her number, I could tell her we need to cancel.”

“Do you want to cancel, bud?” Mr. Higgins asked.

Race very nearly said yes, but in the end he slowly shook his head.

Mr. Higgins put his hand on Race’s shoulder. “It’s not weird. She’s your birth mother. It makes sense for you to want to get to know her.”

“It’s weird that I have to get to know her, in the first place.”

“Being adopted isn’t weird, Tony,” Mrs. Higgins argued.

_ Ahh, beans _ . “That’s not what I meant,” he backpedalled. “I mean it’s weird that she came back.”

Mr. Higgins nodded. “It’s not what any of us were expecting yesterday, that’s for sure.”

Race chuckled bitterly. “You can say that again.”

It wasn’t what he was expecting,  _ ever _ . It had never even occurred to Race that his mom might come looking for home someday. Alive or not, she had been out of the picture from the very start. She was even less reachable in Race’s mind than his father...until she wasn’t. Until she was  _ there _ , and his father wasn’t. And his father never would be again. If he was being honest, he would have much preferred it be the other way around.

At six twenty-eight—Race was watching the clock diligently—there was a knock on the door, and he felt his stomach drop sickly. “I’ll get it,” he offered, crossing to open the door and praying he didn’t look as uncomfortable as he felt.

No amount of preparation could have actually prepared him for opening the door and seeing Gina standing there, looking just like him, like some kind of weird, sci-fi, robot clone lady.

Race smiled, or at least tried to. “Hi...”

“Hi, Tony.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Race glanced up at his father, grateful for the reassuring presence beside him.

“You must be Gina,” Mr. Higgins greeted her with a smile. “I’m Joel Higgins.”

“Gina McCarty,” she replied politely.

“Come on in,” he invited, gently pulling Race with him as he stepped back out of the doorway.

Mrs. Higgins appeared moments later, and he introduced her as well. “This is Tony’s mom, Rachel.”

The not-quite-subtle barb wasn’t lost on Race, and he bit down a smile, amused and frankly glad that Mr. Higgins was so blatantly laying their claim on him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rachel.” Gina smiled, extending a hand, which Mrs. Higgins shook.

“We’re glad to have you, please, come in.”

_ Are we? _ Race thought, following them into the dining room anyway.

On the way in, Gina said all the things grown ups do whenever they visit someone’s home; she complimented the house in general, making note of random, unimportant things here and there. Race was glad for the momentary distraction of commonplace niceties, it gave him a chance to just unabashedly stare at her, and fail to process the concept of His Mom Being There. He had lived in that stomach, that one right there, for nine whole ass months...well, he was a straight up blob for some of it, but still. Now, she was  _ here _ , in his house, talking to his parents, like this wasn’t the craziest, weirdest thing in the world. They sat down at the table, said grace, and talked about the damn lasagna like Gina was a new neighbor or a coworker or someone, as opposed to one of the people who  _ made Race _ .

“So Tony,” she finally turned to Race, and the bite of pasta he’d just swallowed turned to stone. “Tell me how you’ve been?”

She said it like she was catching up on a few weeks or months, rather than the entirety of his life.

“Uh, I’ve been good, I guess. Y’know, ups and downs and whatever.”

“Tony’s top of his class at Duane High School,” Mrs. Higgins jumped in, “and he’s a very accomplished dancer.”

“Oh really?” Gina offered Race a smile, which he returned.

“Yeah, I go to the studio most nights for class, or just to practice.”

“That’s fantastic! Is that something you’re interested in pursuing?”

“Wh— like for a career?”

She nodded. “Well sure, why not?”

“Oh.” Race shook his head. “I don’t really do the performance stuff.”

“Is there something else you’re interested in?”

“I dunno. I’m pretty good at, like, science stuff.” Way to sound intelligent, Race.

“He knows we’re in no rush for him to grow up and get out of the house,” Mr. Higgins said. “He’s welcome to stay here as long as he wants, while he figures out what to do.”

“I wanna go to college,” Race said, “I’m just not really sure where, yet. Senior year sorta got away from me...”

“Time has a way of doing that, huh?” Gina asked, sort of wistfully.

“I guess...”

“My, uh...my son, Logan,” Gina began hesitantly, “turned ten, a few weeks ago. I feel like I just blinked, and...now  _ you’re _ grown up,” she gestured to Race, “and I’ve got a ten- and an eight-year-old at home.”

Race just stared at her. She’d said she had kids, but he thought she meant, like,  _ recently _ . A ten year old? That was only eight years younger than Race. Sure, eight years is a long time, especially when you’re young, but...

“So...” Race felt tears pressing at the backs of his eyes. “I guess your life changed a lot, after you left me and dad, huh?”

She smiled apologetically. “Yes, it did.”

“I uh…” He pressed his lips tightly together for a moment before continuing. “I always sorta figured you just...didn’t want kids...”

“It wasn’t like that, Tony,” she said. “I was fifteen, when I got pregnant with you. My parents were furious. I couldn’t even drive.”

He stayed quiet, waiting for more.  _ Surely _ there was more. But there wasn’t. She didn’t say anything else. “So...” he said shakily, “it’s less that you didn’t want kids and more that you didn’t want  _ me _ .”

“Tony,” Mrs. Higgins said quietly, but Race couldn’t tell if she was admonishing him or commiserating.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t  _ know _ you,” Gina said. “I was young and scared, I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

“You were young and scared?” Race was crying by now, but he barely noticed. “How do you think I felt, when we got flattened by a semi?” His voice broke, but he continued. “How do you think I felt, when I was in that hospital for two months?”

She gaped pathetically, like a dumb fish. “Tony, I—”

“I was  _ alone _ ,” he half-snarled, half-sobbed. “I was a  _ baby _ .”

There were tears in Gina’s eyes now, too. “I’m  _ sorry _ , Tony. If I had known what happened—”

Race shook his head. “You just left us. You didn’t care about me, about Dad—you think he wasn’t ‘young and scared’?” Race was crying in earnest now, and all his words were coming out fast and choked up. “I bet he was. Maybe even more scared than you. I’ll never know though, ‘cause he’s fucking  _ dead _ , and I’ll  _ never get to talk to him. _ ”

Gina was properly stunned silent, finally, and Mrs. Higgins took Race’s hand under the table, but he couldn’t bear it anymore—sitting there, listening to her talk about the family she had, the family she’d moved on and made without him, even though she  _ knew _ he was out there in the world somewhere. Even just looking at her was too much.

Race stood up, shaking his head, trying desperately—and not at all succeeding—to speak clearly and evenly through the tears streaming down his face. “This was a mistake. You should leave.”

Gina shook her head and spoke, sounding heartbroken. “Tony, I—”

He cut her off in a strained shout. “You didn’t want me then, and I  _ sure as hell don’t want you now! _ ”

Without waiting for a reaction, he took off at a run for his room, but only made it to the top of the stairs before curling into a ball and pressing his back against the wall. He buried his face in his arms, wrapped tight around his knees, and shook with strangled, furious sobs. He could still hear her and his parents talking, though not loud enough to make out the words. He hardly even cared what they were saying, he just wanted her to go away.

Their voices became slightly clearer as they, presumably, made their way towards the front door. Gina was obviously upset, and as they neared the bottom of the stairs, Race heard, “I came all this way. If I could just go talk to him—”

“He has your phone number, if  _ he _ decides he wants to talk,” Mr. Higgins said calmly, but shortly.

“If I could just apologize. I feel terrible—”

“We will pass on your apology, and he can decide how to move forward.”

“I’m just trying to give him a chance to know his mother. He deserves that much. I didn’t—”

“He knows his mother,” Mrs. Higgins suddenly snapped, voice thick with something, maybe anger. “ _ I _ am his mother.”

“Wh— Yes, but—”

“You signed away your rights to him when he was a baby. You had no business showing up at his school unannounced. You have no business in his home, when he doesn’t want you here.”

“I was just a kid, I didn’t know what I was doing!” Gina argued.

“But you did!” Mrs. Higgins was shouting now. “You can apologize and try to make it better, but you can’t undo it! Tony is not your son, he’s mine. I have been there for every nightmare, every breakup, every—fucking—bipolar meltdown for the last  _ six years _ , and where were you!? Where were you when his father died and he went into foster care!?”

Race was beyond shocked. He had never heard his mother angry like this before. It was incredible.

“I didn’t know—” Gina attempted.

“You didn’t know,” Mrs. Higgins spat.

“How could I have!?” Gina protested. “Vince and I disconnected, we didn’t talk—”

“Whose fault was that?”

“I didn’t—!” Gina began again, but this time it was Mr. Higgins who cut her off.

“I think you should go.” He spoke firmly, but not unkindly. In fact, he sounded sort of amused.

There was a brief pause, then Gina sighed. “Tell him I’m sorry, and if he ever wants to reach out...”

“I’ll tell him.” Mr. Higgins said.

“Thank you.”

She left, or at least the door opened and closed.

“Horrible woman,” Mrs. Higgins said, sounding incredulous and upset.

Mr. Higgins exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. “Ray—”

“She was awful!” Mrs. Higgins insisted, and now Race could really hear the strained tears in her voice. “To try and come barging into his life like that, after she  _ left _ him—” Mrs. Higgins' voice broke.

Mr. Higgins spoke to her softly, inaudible to Race, and their quiet conversation carried on a minute or two until Mr. Higgins, at a regular volume, suggested, “You go check on him.”

Mrs. Higgins made her way up the stairs, and very nearly tripped on Race, as he was still sitting in the hallway. She gasped, startled. “Oh my goodness.”

“Hi, Momma,” Race said quietly, not even bothering to brush away the tears that were still wet on his cheeks.

“Tony, sweetie, why are you on the floor?” she asked. She knelt down next to him and brushed his hair back with her fingers.

He shrugged half heartedly. “It’s comfy.”

She gently stroked his cheek to wipe away his tears. “I’m sorry tonight didn’t go well.”

“I’m sorry I invited her over,” he answered quietly.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetie. You gave her a chance. That’s more than you owed her.”

“I should’ve known it wasn’t a good idea.” Race sniffled.

“No...” Mrs. Higgins stroked his hair again. “How could you have known?”

“Well,” he took a few stuttered breaths, the way one does when trying to ignore the fact that they’re crying, “her abandoning me as an infant might have been a clue.”

“That was her loss.” She smiled sadly. “It’s bad for her, worse for you, and great for me and your dad.”

Race laughed wetly. “Well I’m glad  _ someone _ is benefiting.”

“I wish it was  _ you _ ,” Mrs. Higgins told him.

“I’m not that bad off,” he replied, brushing away a couple more tears. “Pretty sure I traded up in the mom department.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She pulled him into a tight hug. “I would do anything for you.”

“Just keep bein’ my mom,” he replied, hanging on tight.

“I will  _ always _ be your mom.”


	70. Old Habits Die Hard and So Will Race If He Doesn’t Shut Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, we got SO MANY COMMENTS on the last chapter, I decided to just address most of them here! The consensus seems to be that Gina is controversial and Mrs. Higgins is actually god. We agree.

Spot wasn’t lying when he told Race he wasn’t very good at playing guitar, but it was something to do on a Friday night while Beth was on call. Lizzie’s cage was open, but she still chose to sit inside, watching Spot struggle with a barre chord—F sharp minor, if anyone’s interest—that just wouldn’t come out unmuted, no matter how hard he smashed the strings against the fretboard. His attempts were interrupted by a sudden, sharp _ thunk _ of something hitting his window, and he glanced up, checking for damage. It was probably just a kamikaze bird or something. Then, another one struck. It was definitely a rock.

“What the fuck?” Spot muttered, propping his guitar up against the bed and closing Lizzie’s cage before heading to the window. He slid it open about an inch and called out, “I’m opening the window. Don’t hit me with a rock.”

Another rock immediately hit the window.

“Jesus Christ.” Spot slammed the window shut and headed downstairs, hoping the dingbat—It was Race. It had to be Race—wouldn’t break his window by the time he got around the side of the house.

It _ was _ Race—of course—with a fistful of gravel from the edge of the driveway.

“Dude,” Spot huffed.

“Hey,” Race replied, sounding a good bit more subdued than usual. Shit. That could only mean dinner with his birth mom hadn’t gone well.

“C’mere,” Spot said. “What’s the matter?”

Race moved to drape himself against Spot in something that was sort of like a hug. “I shouldn’t’ve talked to her.”

Spot groaned. “I’m sorry, gorgeous.”

“I guess being a naïve bitch is genetic.”

“And this is the part where I’m supposed to tell you you’re not a naïve bitch, but I have more integrity than that.”

“Can we go inside?” Race asked. “It’s fucking cold out here.”

“Yeah.” Spot turned back towards the house, slipping his arm around Race’s waist as he did. “Besides, you need hot chocolate.”

“I don’t want your nasty Swiss Miss bullshit.” Race pouted. “You don’t even have sprinkles.”

“I bought sprinkles.”

Race stopped in his tracks, and turned to fix Spot with one of the most serious looks he’d seen on his face. Spot tilted his head slightly, waiting for whatever total nonsense was about to grace his ears.

“Sean— Holy fuck...I don’t know your middle name. Sean Marie Conlon—”

“_ Marie? _”

Race slapped at his chest. “Will you shut up so I can finish? Sean Marie Conlon. I have never been more in love with you.”

Spot laughed. “Well, I don’t know who _ Sean Marie Conlon _ is, but he’s a lucky guy.”

“What’s your middle name?” Race pouted, shoving him lightly.

“It’s ‘Get the Fuck Inside, I’m Cold’.” Spot shoved him back. “My name is Sean ‘Get the Fuck Inside, I’m Cold’ Conlon.”

“No it’s not!”

“Yeah, it’s Matthew. Go inside!”

* * *

“Swiss Miss is still shit.”

“Yeah okay, _ Anthony Luca Higgins _,” Spot said, passing over an unopened jar of rainbow sprinkles shaped like unicorns.

“Bitch stop making fun of my name!” Race whined, grabbing the sprinkles from him.

“I’m not making fun of your name.”

“Yes, you are,” Race grumbled, ripping the plastic off the jar and shaking what could be considered a frankly startling amount of sprinkles into his cocoa.

“It’s a nice name,” Spot said, grinning. “Very Italian.”

“That’s what’cha get when a very Italian guy names a baby by himself,” Race retorted, and there was that crippling sadness and anger again. It was just so _ unfair _.

“D’ya like to talk about him, or nah?” Spot asked.

Race shrugged, suddenly uninterested in his cocoa. “I dunno, I don’t really do it enough to know if I like it or not.”

“Well, I’ll listen if you want to.” Spot folded his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the counter, shrugging. “I’m not exactly an expert on dads, but...”

It occurred to Race that he didn’t actually know anything about Spot’s real dad. “What’s the deal with your dad, anyway?” he asked, almost reflexively diverting away from the topic of his own father. “Not Mark, obviously—your actual dad.”

“He’s not in the picture,” Spot answered vaguely.

“So, you don’t like to talk about it?”

He shrugged again. “There’s not much to talk about. He was an alcoholic, and Mom divorced him, so he tried to kidnap me, drove drunk with me in the car, and lost parental rights. I don’t remember him.”

“Shit, that’s pretty rough.”

“It is what it is.”

“I guess,” Race sighed, putting his cocoa, untouched, back on the counter. Just the concept of ‘driving drunk with baby Spot in the car’ made him sick to his stomach.

Spot reached out and took his hand loosely.

“Today sucks,” Race mumbled.

“I’m sorry.”

Race shrugged uselessly. “It is what it is.”

Spot stepped a little closer, letting go of Race’s hand to place it on his cheek instead. Race took this as a cue to close the distance between them, leaning in to kiss him. Spot responded gently, placing his other hand on Race’s side. Race wondered if he always touched his knife scar on purpose, or if it just happened. It was sweet, if it was on purpose, but either way, what he really wanted right then was to feel better. And the best way Race knew to feel better, was to feel good.

“Can you, like, fuck the sad outta me?” he requested, just barely breaking away from the kiss to talk.

“Uh—” Spot stammered. “How about you talk about what’s bothering you, instead?”

Race whined and pressed closer against Spot. “But fucking is so much _ easier _.”

“Come on, baby. Tha’s not healthy.”

“_ I’m _ not healthy,” Race pointed out,

“Not for me, that’s for damn sure.” Spot pulled him in for another short kiss. “You wanna be distracted?”

“Mhm,” Race affirmed, moving so that Spot was more or less trapped between him and the counter. He didn’t really know _ what _ he wanted, he just knew he didn’t want to feel the aching disappointment and loss that had taken up in his chest.

Spot narrowed his eyes for a second, like he was thinking. Then, “Okay, I’ll be right back.” He pushed past Race and headed for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Race called after him.

“To get something!”

Race grumbled nonsense about abandonment and tried not to cry again, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. He was _ really _ ready to stop thinking about Gina, right about then.

Spot came back down the stairs about thirty seconds later, guitar in hand, and nodded towards the living room. “Come on.”

“Whaddayou doin’?” Race asked, following anyway.

“I promised I’d learn something for you, didn’t I?”

“Oh.” Race smiled sheepishly, sitting down on the arm of the couch. “I didn’t think you actually would.”

“O’course I did.” Spot half-smiled. “I can’t go breaking promises to my boy, now can I?”

Race’s smile softened. “Thanks, baby...that’s really sweet.”

“Well, pay attention, ‘cause the odds o’ me gettin’ this right once, let alone twice, are next to nothin’.”

“Okay, okay,” Race laughed, sliding off the arm to sit on the couch, and settled in to listen.

Spot began to play a quiet, simple melody that Race didn’t recognize. He was clearly concentrating, with his brow all scrunched up and his tongue just barely sticking out between his lips. It was adorable. Race didn’t even try to hold down the massive smile that peeled across his face. Spot was cute as hell in general, but it was so sweet that he had bothered to actually learn something, specifically to play it for Race. He played a couple notes wrong, cringing when he did, but Race didn’t even care. It was perfect, exactly how it was. Race sat quietly—for once in his damn life—just happy to listen to Spot play, and watch him. He loved him. Holy shit, he loved him, like he’d never loved anyone before. It was different and new and amazing, and he _ loved _ him. It oscillated so quickly between this quiet, comfortable, warm feeling, like a fluffy comforter that’s been sitting in the sunshine, and something vibrant and desperate and nearly blinding, like a gulp of fresh air when you’ve been underwater too long; it almost hurts, but God, you need it, and Race _ needed _ Spot. He needed Spot like a rainbow needs the rain—gay pun intended.

Eventually, the song ended, and Spot blushed, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah. Sorry that was shit.”

“Shuttup, that was great,” Race retorted, crawling across the couch to kiss him.

Spot set his guitar to the side just in time to wrap his arms around Race as he climbed into his lap. Sliding his fingers through Spot’s hair, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Spot flattened his hands against the small of Race’s back, pressing him in closer, and Race obeyed willingly, wanting nothing more than to get completely lost in everything Spot. He was sweet and caring and protective, and _ God _, he was hot, too. He wasn’t just a distraction, he was all Race wanted to focus on.

Spot chuckled when they broke apart, “Maybe I should play guitar more often?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Race replied, shifting around in Spot’s lap to get comfortable, not at all to subtly grind against him.

Spot tilted his head up to kiss the tip of Race’s nose. “How late are you staying?”

“I can stay over, if you want,” Race said.

Spot smiled. “I always want you to stay over.”

“Then I’ll stay over.”

“Mm. Good.” He slid his hands under Race’s shirt and up his sides. “Beth’s on call. Liz an’ I were gonna be lonely.”

Race giggled, draping his arms over Spot’s shoulders. “You sure? I wouldn’t wanna be a bother.”

“You? Wouldn’t want to be a bother?” Spot smirked, gently raking his fingers back down Race’s sides. “Now, that doesn’t sound like my boy, at all.”

Race pouted, wiggling a tiny bit under Spot’s touch. “I came here to have a good time, and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.”

“Well, I made you hot chocolate, and you didn’t drink it. Bought you sprinkles and everything.” Spot leaned in and buried his face in the side of Race’s neck, pressing a kiss into his skin.

Even this simple action made it feel like someone had lit a bonfire in the pit of Race’s stomach. Before Spot, he had no idea what a dizzying effect love could have on a person. He twisted his fingers into Spot’s hair and gently tugged, wanting to pull him back up so he could kiss him again. Instead of complying, Spot twisted to the side and tipped them over, so Race was flat on his back.

Race gasped lightly at the sudden upending, and Spot pressed another kiss against his neck, then another, then asked, “How pissed are your parents gonna be if I mark you up a little?”

Race laughed. “I think they’ll overlook it this time.”

“Good.” Spot ducked down, attached his mouth just above Race’s collarbone, and sucked hard.

Race gasped again, arching his back to press himself up against Spot, but Spot held him down.

“You’re gonna kill me, Tony, swear to god.”

“I’m not even doing anything!” He whined, wriggling in Spot’s grasp.

“You’re being sexy!”

Race sputtered and laughed. “I’m just laying here!”

“Being sexy,” Spot argued.

“Well, what’cha gonna do about it, bitch?”

Spot tilted his head back up and bit Race’s jaw. Race cried out shortly, a little bit startled, but mostly delighted. He always felt honored that Spot let him see his sweet, gentle side. His playful side was even more rare and special, so Race played right back, lightly smacking at his side.

“Rude!”

“Nah, you know what’s rude?” Spot sat back up, pulling Race with him. He grabbed the hem of Race’s shirt and pulled it over his head, intentionally covering his face and trapping his arms, then tickled his stomach. “You having all these fucking _ clothes _ on—that’s rude!”

Race squealed, thrashing to escape, and accidentally kneeing Spot in the ribs in the process. Spot grunted and dumped him into the floor, also probably by accident. After a brief struggle, Race managed to get his shirt off, and sat up to throw it at Spot. Spot batted it away and tackled him back to the floor, just barely missing the coffee table, and wrapped his arms around him. Race squealed again, laughing, and nearly cracking his head as he hit the floor.

“Oh shit, are you okay?” Spot laughed, sliding his hand under Race’s head now, like he only just realized body-slamming him to the floor might be a bad idea.

“Man, I thought we were done trying to kill each other?” Race laughed.

“Old habits die hard, baby.”

He snickered. “Fair enough. So are you gonna fuck me, or am I gonna die hard, too?”

Spot rolled his eyes. “I have never been more attracted to you.” He stood up, offering Race a hand.

“Really?” Race asked, accepting the help to his feet. “I thought that was pretty dumb.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

Spot smirked. “Don’t get smart with me.” He turned and headed towards the stairs.

Race took a second to grab his shirt, but didn’t bother to put it back on as he followed Spot upstairs. “Thought my smarts was one of the things you like about me?”

“Hmm. Maybe you _ will _ die hard, after all.”

* * *

When you have a hot boyfriend, a high sex drive, and little to no sense of delayed gratification, getting the sad fucked out of you may seem like a great idea. The big problem with that strategy, though, is that once the fucking stops, the sad will come back, and then it’s one in the morning, and your hot boyfriend is asleep, and you somehow manage to feel even more alone than before. Race rolled over for what must have been the millionth time, wishing he could just turn his brain off and fall asleep, instead of wondering what life would’ve been like if Gina had stayed. Would she and his dad have gotten married? Would they have had more kids? Would they have been a family? Race wondered what life would’ve been like with siblings, and that pulled him down the rabbit hole of wondering what life was like for Gina’s sons, Logan and whatever the other one was called. Did they have a father? Had she gotten married and had a proper family? Did her sons, his brothers, even know he existed? Probably, unless Gina lied to them about where she was going and why. Did _ they _ want to meet him? Had Race let them down? Here, Racer, have another heaping spoonful of unearned guilt.

With a quiet groan and a brief and fitful wiggle back and forth, Race gave in and sat up, swinging his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. He dropped his head, running his hands through his hair tiredly.

Behind him, Spot shifted. “Hey...”

Race glanced over his shoulder. “Shit, did I wake you up?”

“Yeah.” Spot pushed himself up on his elbow. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“‘M sorry, I’m just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Gina ‘n all that.”

Spot hummed in acknowledgement, sitting up and crawling across the bed to sit next to Race. “You wanna talk about it?”

“She has kids,” Race told him.

“Yeah, she wanted you to ‘meet your brothers’ an’ all that.” Oh, right, Spot had been there.

Race nodded. “Yeah, she said one of ‘em’s ten, and the other is eight.”

“You thinkin’ about them?” Spot asked.

Race nodded again, and he shrugged. “All of it, I guess. This whole time, I sorta figured she just didn’t want kids or a family or whatever.” He brushed a hand across his eye to preemptively push away the tears that were threatening to escape. “She said everything changed after she left...so why didn’t she just stay? If she wanted a family, why didn’t she just...” Dammit, there were the tears. “Why didn’t she want _ me? _”

Spot leaned over a little to drop a kiss on Race’s shoulder. “Fuck that,” Spot murmured, sleepily leaning over to stop a kiss on Race’s shoulder, “_ I _want you.”

Race meant to give him some sort of verbal answer, but instead he just whimpered, and began to cry harder.

Spot pulled Race into his arms, rubbing his lower back. “_ I _ want you,” he repeated.

Race just leaned into him and cried, and Spot held him tight, rocking him slightly. It wasn’t even that Race wanted Gina, or to be a part of her family or her life or anything. He actually very specifically _ didn’t _ want her. He just wanted to be wanted. To be worth effort. To be worth staying with. Maybe that was why he had gone to Spot. Left by his mother before he could even remember her, losing his father, and then spending years being rejected by foster parents, Race had built up one hell of a load of abandonment issues, none of which had been helped by the stream of noncommittal boyfriends. But he had his parents, and Albert and Jack, and of course the guys from dance, and now he had Spot—Spot, who said he loved him, and acted like it, too. Spot, who put up with his bullshit and his breakdowns. Spot, who Race had no idea how he was lucky enough to get, and he would do damn near anything to keep him.

As he finally began to run out of tears, Spot leaned back just enough to kiss his cheek, still holding him close.

“I’m sorry,” Race whimpered, patting awkwardly at Spot’s tear-soaked shoulder.

Spot hushed him.

“I love you.” Race said quietly, leaning against him again.

“I love you, too,” Spot told him. “You’re...just...” He shook his head. “God, I really do love you, Anthony.”

Race shoved him, but only barely. “Shut up, I’m gonna cry again.”

“Enjoy it while I’m half asleep and not worried about inflating your damn ego.”

He giggled wetly, shifting to snuggle closer against Spot’s shoulder. Despite the awkwardness of him being taller, Race really did feel safe and comfortable in Spot’s arms.

“Have you slept at all?” Spot asked.

“Not really,” he admitted.

“Come on.” Spot pulled him back towards the middle of the bed. “I gotcha.”

Race hummed noncommittally, but lay down anyway. Spot lay on his back and put his arm around Race’s shoulders, pulling him into his side, and Race curled against him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Spot gently stroked Race’s arm, turning his head towards him such that his lips brushed against his head. “You’re fucking incredible,” he mumbled, like he was half asleep already.

Race snorted quietly, amused, and _ very _ in love. “I’m fucking lying here.”

“W’ll I don’t just mean right _ now_.”

“Oh yeah? When else?”

“When you’re bein’ a little shit.”

Race laughed. “That’s incredible?”

“Nah,” Spot chuckled, “I just meant ‘all the time’.”

“I’m always incredible, or I’m always a little shit?”

“Both. Come on, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Is that code for ‘shut up and go to sleep’?” Race teased.

“Yeah,” Spot grumbled, shifting to get more comfortable and pulling Race closer in the process.

Race sighed contentedly, hooking a leg up over Spot’s hip. He was glad he’d found someone who was just as cuddly as he was—or, at least, someone willing to acquiesce to the clinginess.

Spot took a deep breath and relaxed on the exhale. Race could hear his heartbeat slow down as he drifted back towards sleep. Race still felt lost, but he figured, as long as he had Spot holding onto him, nothing all that bad could happen.


	71. k

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot and Petey start working on their project, Race isn't happy, and neither is Albert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were discussing Petey, and we decided that he's 'twinkier than Spot but less twinky than Race. A Jack-level twink,' and that's the story of how we decided that Petey looks like Corey Cott. Do with this what you will. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

By the time Monday rolled around, after a nice weekend that included Hannah being inconveniently out of town, getting high as fuck with Elmer after church, and reading the novel Jack wrote about his date with David over text on Sunday night, Race felt like he had put the drama with Gina behind him. He kept the picture of her and his father—okay, so, he tore her out of it and kept the picture of his father—so he had gained something and lost nothing, except maybe a little bit of his precious remaining sanity.

“Ready to listen to Jack ramble about ‘Davey’ for an hour?” Albert asked after AP bio, putting his notebook in his backpack and taking out a Capri-Sun.

Spot chuckled. “Nah, about that—I’m gonna meet with Petey about the project for a bit, then I’ll join you guys.”

“Oh...” Race said, trying not to frown. “Okay, sure.”

“Gotta sit with my friends someday, too. They miss me.”

“Right, sure,” Race agreed, nodding.

“Seeya in a bit.” Spot kissed his cheek, then headed towards the other side of the room, where Petey sat.

Albert and Race headed to the cafeteria and on to their usual table, sitting down and leaving a seat un-backpacked for Jack.

Albert produced another Capri-Sun from his backpack and passed it off to Race. “Man, it’s day three and I’m done with this semester.”

“Get yourself sponsored by Capri Sun and you can drop out,” Race suggested, accepting the foil pouch.

“God, I would, but then all those college apps would have been for nothing.” Albert shook his head. “I gotta make a decision, soon.

“Where you lookin’ at?” Race asked, glancing across the room towards Petey’s table. He and Spot were sitting next to each other, looking intently at Petey’s laptop. Race huffed quietly, unreasonably displeased by their closeness.

“You’re— Bitch, you’re not even listening to me!” Albert uttered incredulously.

Race looked over at him quickly. “I— shit, sorry. Say again?”

Albert huffed in annoyance and rolled his eyes. “I  _ said _ I applied to various places in New York, but I’m probably just gonna go to the community college.”

Race nodded. “Right. You applied for scholarships n’ stuff?”

“Yeah, just don’t see the point of spending all that money for a four-year school when I don’t even know what I’m gonna do.”

Race nodded again. “Yeah. I sorta missed the boat for applying and everything this year, what with the hospital and everything...” He trailed off, glancing over towards Spot again. It wasn’t like he couldn’t stand not eating lunch with him or anything dumb like that, he just wondered what Petey would say about him. He was so engrossed in trying to read Petey’s lips that he just about jumped out of his skin when Jack sat down next to him.

“Guuuyys,” Jack whined.

Albert quirked an eyebrow. “David?”

Jack nodded.

“Is he just so pretty?” Race asked in mock sympathy.

Jack slammed his hand against the table, sitting up straighter in his excitement. “No, get this—he starts to drop the prude act as he gets more comfortable, and he’s  _ funny _ .”

Race snorted. “Earth shattering.”

“He  _ sassed _ me!”

“Hot damn,” Albert chuckled.

Jack went on to detail the sassing, but Race was distracted by Spot laughing at something Petey said. Was it something about him? Were they making fun of him? Was Petey talking about what a annoying, clingy piece of shit he was and Spot agreeing? His nose wrinkled up, somewhere between a displeased frown and a slight snarl. He couldn’t exactly ask Spot not to do his project, that would be crazy, but he needed to do  _ something _ to make sure Petey didn’t drive a wedge between them.

He only snapped out of it when an empty Capri-Sun pouch bounced off his face.

“Whatthefuuuck!” he whined, turning an accusatory glare on Albert.

Albert glared right back. “Can’t be away from your favorite piece of ass for five fucking  _ minutes? _ ”

“It’s not about that!” Race protested. “His new project partner is my ex, and he’s gonna talk shit!”

“Who?” Jack asked.

“Petey Hamming.”

“Wait, when did  _ you _ date Petey Hamming?”

“We didn’t exactly  _ date _ .”

“He’s a bottom!”

“Who cares?” Albert hissed.

Jack gestured emphatically at nothing in particular. “I dated Petey the summer before sophomore year, dude! It’s bro code! Race can’t just bang my ex!”

“I’m a slut! Bro code dating rules don’t apply!” Race argued.

“Well, you’re right about one of those things,” Albert sneered, repacking what was left of his lunch. “You’re a slut.”

Race frowned. “What are you doing? Lunch isn’t over yet.”

Albert gasped mockingly. “Oh, you  _ do _ see me!”

Race frowned more. “What!?”

“Al, what’s going on?” Jack asked.

“Nothing.” Albert stood up. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Well clearly it does matter,” Race argued. “What’s up with you?”

“Wouldn’t you rather have lunch with your boyfriend, anyway?”

Albert was gone before Race could respond, and Jack slumped back in his chair and sighed. Race looked to Jack, baffled, and a little bit indignant, though not entirely sure why.

“I’ll talk to him,” Jack said, beginning to pack up his own lunch.

“Great, now you’re gonna ditch me, too?”

“Don’t do that, Race.”

“I’m not doing anything!” he whined.

Jack held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just going to talk to him.”

Race slumped back in his seat. “Yeah, okay.”

Jack patted him on the shoulder and took off after Albert. Race crossed his arms, now entirely uninterested in his lunch, and resumed staring across the room at Spot and Petey, but now his mind was occupied with Albert, as well. What was his deal? He had just started being super bitchy out of nowhere. It’s not like Race had done anything to piss him off.

Finally,  _ finally _ , Spot and Petey exchanged some final pleasantries, and Spot stood up and headed towards Race.

“So how’d it go?” Race asked when Spot arrived.

“Good. We got a topic.” Spot leaned down and kissed the top of Race’s head before sitting down next to him. “Where’re Jack an’ Red?”

Race huffed. “Albert got all mad and took off, so Jack went to talk to him.”

“What’s his problem?”

“I have no idea, he just got all weird and indignant outta nowhere!”

Spot hummed and set about retrieving his lunch. At least one of them didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

“So how’s Petey?” Race asked, trying not to let his distaste creep into his voice.

“He’s good,” Spot replied casually. “I like him.”

“Oh, cool, that’s...good...”

“Red’ll come around, baby; he’s your best friend,” Spot said, completely misconstruing the current reason for Race’s displeasure.

“Yeah,” Race picked up, “I just don’t get what he’s mad about.”

“Well, don’t worry about it.” Spot bumped him with his shoulder. “Like I said, he’ll come around.”

* * *

He did not, in fact, come around.

For the next three days, Albert stubbornly ignored Race, and it was driving Race crazy. Finally, on Friday, Race cracked, and after school, he immediately crossed the backyard, hopped the fence, and began to incessantly knock on the back door of Albert’s house.

A very confused Ms. Knowles answered the door. “Tony? What’s up?”

“Where’s Albert?” Race demanded, a bit ruder than necessary.

Ms. Knowles raised her eyebrows, probably surprised at his tone, but let him inside, anyway. “He’s in his room.”

“Thanks Ms. K.”

Race headed upstairs, grumbling to himself, and knocked roughly on Albert’s bedroom door.

“Yeah?” Albert called.

Race went ahead and took that as an invitation to open the door and come on in. “Dude, what the fuck!?”

Albert had been sitting at his desk, and he whipped around when he heard Race’s voice. He scowled. “What do  _ you _ want?”

“I wanna know why you’re trying to freeze me out!”

Albert turned back to his computer. “Go away.”

“Not till you talk to me. It’s been a week!”

“Oh, a week, huh?” Albert nodded. “Wow.”

“Dude,” Race groaned, “what the fuck is going on!?”

“I’m asking you to leave, and you’re not leaving, that’s what’s going on,” Albert snapped.

Race threw his hands up in frustration. “Y’know you’re such a bitch when you’re pouting about something. Will ya just tell me what it is so we can be friends again!?”

“Oh, is that what you call allowing me to exist in the presence of you and your boyfriend?” Albert turned again. “Friendship? Well, maybe I found someone better to hang out with, too. Did you ever think of that? Or is your head so far up Sean’s ass you’ve forgotten that I have a life, too?”

Race gaped at him. “So you’re mad ‘cause I’ve got a boyfriend?”

“Jack’s got a boyfriend, too. Am I mad at him? No,” Albert said. “I’m mad because you do this every fucking time, Race; you get with some guy, and you forget I exist, and I’m over it. When’s the last time we actually hung out, just the two of us, when Spot was an option?”

Race opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again before anything came out. Albert was right.

Albert scoffed. “Exactly. And when’s the last time I wasn’t there for you when you needed me?”

Race frowned because again, Albert was right, and he was a piece of shit.

“Fuck off, Anthony,” Albert grumbled, turning back to his computer again.

“Okay, you’re right,” Race sighed.

“I know I’m right. Fuck off.”

“I’m sorry!” Race insisted, stepping further into the room. “You’re right, and I’m a dick, and I’m sorry.“

Albert groaned. “How many times do I have to tell you fuck off before you do it?”

“At least once more, Miss Swann,” Race grumbled.

Albert grabbed a mostly empty bottle of Gatorade from beside his computer and chucked it at Race, barely missing, and it slammed into the wall behind Race’s head. “Fuck off!”

“I’m not leaving!” Race shouted right back. “Do you wanna hit me!? Would that make you feel better!? Fine!” He thumped his chest with both hands. “Fucking hit me!”

Albert stood up and started towards him, and for a hot second, Race thought he was actually going to do it. Instead, Albert grabbed Race by the shoulders and shoved him out the door, slamming and locking it behind him.

Race knocked—more like punched the door—once, loudly. “I’m not leaving till you talk to me!”

He was rewarded with dead silence.

Race ground his teeth together, and was about to give the door a sharp kick, but thought better of it, instead turning around to put his back to it, and slide down to sit on the floor, crossing his arms in an audienceless show of stubbornness. If Albert wanted to get around him, he’d have to go out the damn window.

Race sat in furious, guilty silence. Albert was right, but he was being a dick about it. Race was definitely the type to get some hardcore tunnel vision with a new relationship, and especially with Spot, since Spot was so... _ everything _ , but Albert wasn’t being fair. He hadn’t said anything. Race didn’t even notice anything was wrong, and then Albertjust flipped out, and now that he  _ did _ know, Albert wasn’t giving him the chance to do anything about it.

After a few minutes, a text came into his phone. He checked it, expecting something from his mom or dad, hoping it was Albert reaching out. Instead, it was from Spot.

“ _ What’s going on? Why did Albert just text me to come get my whore out of his house? _ ”

Race scoffed lightly in indignation. “ _ Turns out he’s all mad cause I been focusing on you, and sorta neglecting our friendship, but now he won’t talk to me, so I’m siege-ing his bedroom _ .”

“ _ That may not be the best way to get back on his good side babe _ ”

“ _ He won’t talk to me! _ ”

“ _ I guarantee this isn’t helping _ ”

Race huffed, quietly annoyed. How was he supposed to apologize and make it better if Albert wouldn’t talk to him? “ _ Well then what do you suggest I do? _ ”

Unbidden, memories of the other night with Gina popped into his head. He hadn’t forgiven her. His parents hadn’t given her a chance to apologize. What if Albert completely shut him out, like that? There was no way. He couldn’t. They had history, just like Race and Gina  _ didn’t _ . Except for, you know, the pregnancy and birth thing. Fuck.

“ _ I don’t know _ ,” Spot replied eventually.

“ _ I don’t know what to do _ ,” Race admitted. “ _ Like, if I leave, doesn’t that just prove his point that I’m not putting effort in or whatever? _ ”

“ _ I don’t think it’s like that _ ”

“ _ Well it obviously doesn’t do any good if I just leave him be _ ” He sent another text, rather than bother with punctuation. “ _ He’s been ignoring me all week! _ ”

“ _ I know and I’m sorry but idk what I can do _ ”

Race stared at his phone for a moment, thinking, and then clicked back out of his conversation with Spot to send a text to his best pal-bert. “ _ Look. I’m sorry. I know you don’t wanna hear it, or don’t believe me, or you’re just too mad to care, or whatever, but I am. I’m sorry. I get that you don’t want to talk now, so I’ll leave you alone, but when you do want to talk, come over? _ ”

He pressed send and waited a moment, hoping for an answer that he didn’t actually expect. To his vast surprise, he received one.

“ _ k _ ”

He sighed heavily and headed downstairs, thanking Ms. Knowles on his way out the back door.


	72. I Buried a Dead Raccoon This Morning, Have a New Chapter of Theories of Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race goes to see Hannah for the first time in a couple weeks.

On Saturday, Race—surprising everyone—was actually looking forward to therapy. Hannah had been out of town, so this would be his first appointment in two weeks, and what a two weeks it had been.

“I sure hope camping was worth it, Hannah,” Race said, crashing onto the couch, “‘cause  _ hoo boy _ , did you miss some shit!”

“Oh, really?” She sat down in her desk chair with her pen and paper as usual. “Do tell.”

“Well, my birth-mom showed up.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh my. How did that go?”

He half laughed. “Really,  _ really _ bad.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I mean, the whole thing is just nuts.” He shrugged. “She showed up out of nowhere, at school, and said she wanted to, like, fix things.” He twisted his face up. The whole thing still left a sour taste in his mouth. “She has kids now. And not even, like, recently! They’re ten and eight. How fucked up is that?”

Hannah did that therapist thing where she just nodded slowly with her lips pressed slightly together, all contemplative. “Not to be cliche, but how does that make you  _ feel _ , Tony?”

“Pretty fuckin’ bad, actually,” Race chuckled.

“Because—and stop me if I’m wrong—you feel like the fact that she has kids now means that there’s something wrong with you in particular.”

Race nodded, trying not to cringe.

“And, because you are a reasonable and intelligent young man, you know that can’t possibly be the case, because you were an infant when she gave you up.”

“I guess, but that doesn’t really make me feel any better.” He sighed, “I always thought she just didn’t want it, y’know? The whole kids and family thing. But she did. She just didn’t want me and my dad.”

“She was young, when she had you, right?”

“Like, fifteen or something. And I know that makes it different but, like, there’s tons of teen mothers who keep their babies.”

Hannah nodded. “That’s true, but have you ever thought of it as her not wanting to have a family at fifteen, as opposed to her not wanting  _ you? _ ”

Race was quiet for a moment. “I guess that makes sense...”

“Of course, I’m not saying you should let her back into your life if you don’t want to,” Hannah clarified. “Actions have consequences, and you don’t have to save her from those consequences. What’s important is that you’re not harboring guilt or shame for someone else’s actions.”

“Yeah, I got plenty of that from my own actions,” he answered. Albert still hadn’t come over, called, or even texted.

Hannah gave him a knowing look. “Do you want to talk about that?”

Race sighed, wringing his hands briefly in front of him. “I’ve been kind of a shitty friend lately, and Albert, my best friend, is real mad about it.”

“How so?”

“I’ve been pretty fixated on Spot, so I guess I haven’t been doing much friendship maintenance.”

“Have you tried talking to Albert? Or Spot, for that matter?”

“I didn’t even realize what was goin’ on till Albert flipped out,” Race admitted guiltily, “and now he won’t talk to me. He’s been ignoring me all week.”

Hannah smiled sympathetically. “Sometimes, people just need time, Tony. For what it’s worth, I’ve had several ‘shitty friends’ in my day, and none of them ever felt guilty or admitted to being in the wrong.”

“How’m I supposed to fix it if he won’t talk to me?” Race grumbled, and then continued before Hannah could even answer. “And, like, now I feel guilty if I hang out with Spot, even though Albert is still ignoring me, so it’s not even like I’m choosing Spot over him.”

“Do you think Albert wants you to leave Spot completely?”

Race tossed his hands up. “I got no idea what he wants!”

“What about Spot? How do you think he’ll feel about you reprioritizing your friendships?”

“...I dunno, we haven’t talked about it yet.”

“Does he tend to be possessive of you at all?”

“I mean, sorta?” Race shrugged. “Not in a bad way though.”

Hannah still looked a little concerned about this. “What does that mean?”

“Like, cute stuff,” he explained. “Like he’s protective, or he’ll call me his, or sometimes he orders me around, but it’s only just playing. He’s clarified before that if I don’t like it, he’ll stop.”

“I see. And you like that?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I like it a lot, actually.”

“So things are going well with him, then?”

“I think so.”

“You  _ think _ so?”

“I mean I’m super preoccupied with him leaving, and I’m terrified that something is gonna fuck it up before that even happens. Like, we got new project parents for bio, and his partner is my ex.” Race frowned. “Well, sorta my ex. We didn’t really  _ date _ ; it was more of just a fling.”

“Ah.” Hannah nodded in understanding. “I could see where that might be uncomfortable.”

“I’m, like, super annoying and clingy. What if Petey talks shit and Spot, like, agrees with him? Or what if he likes him better?”

“Do you have any reason to believe either of those things will happen?”

Race was quiet for a while, mostly just pouting. “No.”

Hannah chuckled. “Tony, from what you’ve told me about your Spot, it sounds like he really cares about you.”

A little smile pushed through the pouting. ‘His Spot’.

“Aaand,” Hannah continued, a little sing-song, “it sounds like you care about him a lot, too.”

Race nodded. “I do, a lot.”

“Well, I know it rarely helps to say there’s no use in worrying, but in your case, I have to say it doesn’t sound like there’s any use in worrying.”

It was, in fact, good to hear Hannah say that. It was validating to hear from someone outside the situation that he and Spot looked stable.

* * *

Driving back from therapy, Race decided he would take a nap once he got home. It was a lazy, depressing sort of day, and he just wasn’t feeling it in regards to consciousness. He pulled his car into the driveway haphazardly, took a moment to marvel at his parking job being about as straight as he was, then headed inside.

“I’m home!” he called out, already heading for the stairs.

His mom called from the kitchen, “Albert’s in your room, sweetie!”

Race tripped on the bottom stair. “Ohshit,” he mumbled, then called back, “Thanks!” and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Mrs. Higgins was wrong, though. Albert wasn’t in Race’s room. He was actually on the bit of roof just outside the window. Race opened the window to climb out. “What are you doin’ out here?”

“What’s it look like?” Albert asked, waving a lit cigarette between his fingers—one of Race’s, no doubt.

“Fair enough,” Race conceded, pushing himself up and out onto the roof.

They sat in silence for a minute, as Race didn’t know what to say and worried that he’d only make it worse. Albert broke the silence eventually.

“You’re a shit person sometimes, Tony.”

Race let out a rough exhale that was  _ sort _ of a laugh. “I know...”

They lapsed back into silence after that. It was obvious that Albert was still mad.

“I’m sorry,” Race said quietly. “And I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“‘Cause I’ve been a shitty friend. I’ve been ignoring you and taking you for granted and just being really shitty.”

“No,” Albert argued. “That’s what you’re sorry about.  _ Why _ are you sorry?”

“Wh— ‘Cause you’re my best friend, and I hurt you!? Whaddayou mean ‘why am I sorry’?”

Albert sputtered angrily. “I don’t know! Maybe you’re sorry for yourself because I’m not talking to you.”

Race huffed, trying not to be too indignant. “Man, I’m not  _ that _ much of an asshole! I’m selfish and oblivious, but I said you’re right, and I’m a dick, and I’m  _ sorry! _ I didn’t realize I was doing anything wrong, but now I do!”

Albert let out a heavy sigh. When he spoke again, the bite was gone. “I just don’t get it. How can you  _ not _ notice we’re not spending time together? We’re supposed to be best friends.”

“I’ve been distracted,” Race offered weakly. “And I  _ know _ it’s a shitty excuse, but it’s true.”

Albert chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, you were distracted by Spot working on a school project with another guy for less than an hour. I think I could probably drop off the face of the Earth, and you wouldn’t notice.”

“That’s not fair,” Race complained. “I  _ would _ notice.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

Race sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. He wanted to steal Albert’s cigarette for a hit—it was technically his, anyway—but he wasn’t sure that such assumed casualness was the best idea just then. “I fucked up man, I know.” Race hoped he sounded as sincerely sorry as he felt. “What do you want me to do to fix it?

Albert just shrugged.

Race sighed quietly. “Fair enough.”

There was another minute of quiet, and then Albert said, “I didn’t apply to any colleges out of state.”

Despite everything, a small smile pulled at the corner of Race’s mouth. “Well, I’m glad I got someone who isn’t planning on leaving.”

“Yeah,” Albert said. “S’why I did it.”

They were quiet for another minute as Race tried to think of a suitable answer.

“So when we’re, like, in our forties, and no one will stay with me cause I’m a piece of shit, and no one will stay with you cause you’re always angry, can we get married?”

“No.”


	73. Surprise Petey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petey annoys Race by *checks notes* existing.

Albert was still hurt, of course, but at least he wasn’t flat out ignoring Race anymore. He’d spent the lunch break with some other friends, over the past week, but on Monday things were mostly normal—albeit a little tense—again. On Tuesday, Spot announced that he was gonna have lunch with Hot Shot, Vince, and Myron. Race recognized it as an attempted third party peace offering, and he appreciated it, but it brought to mind what Hannah had said about wondering if Albert wanted him to leave Spot entirely. He didn’t think that was the case, but if it was, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He wanted to talk to Albert more and make sure that wasn’t the solution he had in mind, but that conversation would have to wait a bit. He had dance that night, and had to prep for the battle ahead. It was getting to be spring recital season, and that meant it was time for another round of argue-with-everyone-‘cause-they-think-you-should-perform-but-you-really-don’t-want-to.

“They’re gonna be one person down, Race.” It was Kaylie trying to convince him this time, leaning against the mirror beside him as he did some stretches on the bar. “You’re the best dancer here. They need you.”

“Ey, you hear that, Tommy Boy?” Race shouted across the studio. “I’m the best dancer here!” He immediately turned back to her and continued at a normal tone of voice. “Yeah, how are you doing, by the way?”

She smiled weakly. “Tired. But hey, I’ve finally stopped throwing up all the time, so that’s a plus.”

Race shot double finger guns at her. “Ey, score.”

“Yeah, well,” she laughed lightly, “now I’m just waiting for the back pain and swollen feet to kick in.”

“Yeah, like you don’t get enough of that already from dance.”

“Well, I’m dancing for two, now,” she joked.

Race laughed. Kaylie was a sweet girl. They’d always been friendly at the studio, though never specifically friends, but unsurprisingly, there was a lot more interaction now that she and Finch were...whatever they were. They hadn’t been an official couple before the pregnancy, and things were definitely different now, but neither of them had said anything about actual relationship status. They didn’t really act like a couple, more like buds who happened to share a fetus.

Kaylie looked down, laying a hand over her stomach. “We’re twelve weeks along, so they’re, like, the size of a plum, and they have fingernails and eyelids and stuff. We should be able to hear the heartbeat at my appointment on Thursday, and then we can start telling more people.”

Race nodded. “That’s awesome.”

“Well, wish us luck,” she said quietly. “I think Finch is gonna die if there’s no heartbeat. He’s been stressed out all week.”

Race cringed. Somehow, he hadn’t even thought of that. “Yikes, yeah, good luck.”

“Alright,” Miss Susan called, gathering the class, “everyone ready?”

It was ballet night. Race loved ballet night. Dance in general was basically the best coping mechanism he had, but something about ballet especially helped ease his mind. Well, really, it made him hyper-focused and a bit stressed out, but in a very specific, good sort of way. Just getting lost in combinations, running choreography until he couldn’t hear the music without the moves coming to mind like a reflex, and of course silently mocking Tommy Boy when Miss Susan critiqued his extension. His very first dance lessons had been in ballet, and he considered himself a ballet boy above all. It was almost to the point of being problematic, or noticeable at the very least. No matter what style you’re dancing in the moment, ballet training always bleeds through. If he had a penny for every time Miss Susan told him to relax during contemporary classes, he’d have bought himself those new tap shoes a lot sooner.

After class, Race decided he wanted to run a couple of the combinations a few more times, and asked Finch if he’d hang around and count for him. Finch, of course, agreed.

About halfway through the fourth set, Race paused for a drink of water. As he set his water bottle back down, he asked, “Hey, am I a bad friend?”

“Uh, no?” Finch scrunched up his brow in confusion.

“Okay,” Race replied. “Just thought I’d check.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I dunno—you’ve got a lot going on, and I’ve been, like, super distracted lately, so I just thought...” He trailed off and shrugged again.

Finch nodded. “You have been, yeah, but like...I feel like everyone is, right now. It’s senior year, you know? We’re all figuring out what the rest of our lives are gonna look like.”

“Right, yeah no, for sure.” Race didn’t really want to get into the whole thing about Albert and Spot, but he’d wanted to make sure that it wasn’t some big, out of control problem that he’d just failed to notice.

Finch sat down on the floor next to his bag and leaned back against the walk. “You’re taking a gap year, right?”

“Mhm,” Race confirmed.

“I’m thinkin’ a’ doing that,” Finch told him, “but I think my parents are gonna flip out.”

“What would they flip out for?”

“Man, they’re already scared to death about my future, with the baby and all. They’re gonna think, if I take a year off school to stay with the baby, I’ll never go back.” He sighed. “Probably be right, too.”

“Hmm, I guess that’s a good point,” Race mused, turning back to the mirror to check his technique as they continued talking. “What do you want to do, anyway? Like, for a career or whatever?”

“I was thinking business. I wanna make enough money to enjoy my free time without worrying, y’know? And now I’m worried about my kid—” Finch huffed. “God, sorry, I need to shut up about my kid, sometimes.”

Race chuckled. “Nah man, don’t worry about it.”

Finch got quiet for a minute, then spoke softly. “Man, what if I really fuck this up? This ain’t a school project and I can make up for with extra credit; it’s a human being.”

Race looked over at him. “Y’know, just you bein’ worried about it speaks volumes.”

“Right,” Finch scoffed, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Sure.”

“No, seriously,” Race insisted. “You actually give a shit. That’s, like, super important.”

“Man, I don’t know how I could  _ not _ give a shit. It’s like some weird fucking paternal instinct kicked in when the shock wore off.”

Race smiled, quietly wondering if that’s how it had been for  _ his _ dad.

“Anyway,” Finch continued, forced casual, “we don’t even know if they have a heartbeat.”

“I’m sure they will,” Race said, though of course he wasn’t sure. He certainly hoped they would, but there was no guarantee of anything.

Finch nodded. “Me, too.”

“And anyway, there’s no  _ way _ you’re gonna fuck that kid up worse than spending time with their uncle Racer will.”

“Oh, hell...”

Race giggled. “It’s gonna be great.”

It would be different for Finch, he realized. Finch, unlike Race’s dad, had a support system. Kaylie wasn’t planning to duck and run, as far as Race could tell. None of their parents had disowned them. Plus, they had their friends. They wouldn’t be alone.

* * *

Once he was done at the studio, Race decided he wanted to go bug Spot—it was only eight o’clock, after all, so he sent Spot a text as he packed his dance shoes into his bag. “ _ Hey, can I come over? _ ” He still hadn’t gotten a text back by the time he’d gotten in his car and buckled up, but decided to go on over anyway. He parked out on the road, happy to see that Spot’s car was in the driveway, but mildly surprised to see another car there. For whatever reason, he hadn’t expected Beth to be home. With half a shrug, he unbuckled and made his way up to the porch, then knocked on the door.

He heard muffled voices inside, then Spot opened the door. “Oh.” He looked surprised. “Hey, baby, what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” Race replied with a smile and a shrug.

“Okay, well, um, Petey’s here.” Spot ushered Race inside, anyway. “We’re working on the project.”

“Oh.”

Petey, who was sitting on the couch, looked up at Race’s arrival and smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey...” Race answered with only a bit of hesitation. “I thought it was Beth’s car, in the driveway.”

“Nah, she’s working late again.” Spot headed towards the fridge.

“Oh,” Race said again. That meant Spot and Petey were alone at Spot’s house to work on their AP Bio project. Just like Race and Spot had been, a few months ago.

Spot opened the fridge, took a bottle of Ah!laska chocolate syrup out of the door, and tossed it underhand at Race. “You’re fuckin’ spoiled, you know that?”

Race fumbled to catch it. “What— Why are you throwin’ shit at me!?”

“I bought that for you,” Spot gestured at the bottle now in Race’s hands.

Race looked down at it, and he couldn’t help a little snicker. “For hot cocoa, or for...other stuff?”

Petey, still over on the couch, laughed, while Spot rolled his eyes and sighed.

“It’s a valid question!” Race insisted.

“You’re ridiculous.” Spot poked him in the stomach on his way past, back to the living room.

“Yeah, but you love me,” Race shot back, setting the chocolate syrup down on the counter and moving to follow him.

Spot sat down at the built-in desk, where the computer displayed a page on ‘Anti-Predator Behavior’. “So is there one you wanna focus on, or...?” he asked Petey.

Petey scrunched up his face a bit. “Is camouflage too basic?”

“Maybe. I kinda like the, uh...shit, what’s it called? When they’re basically showing off that they’re good enough to get away even when they’re doing stupid shit?”

“Handicap principle?”

“Fucking  _ thank you _ .”

Race walked over to stand behind Spot, resting his crossed arms on the back of his chair. “You guys picking your topic?” he asked.

“Well, we know we want to do anti-predator, we just wanna narrow it down,” Spot explained.

Petey piped up, “I’m good with handicap principle, if you are.”

“Alex wants to do something with genetics,” Race said, dropping his hands to mess with Spot’s hair.

“That’s cool,” Spot said, clearly focusing more on the immortal words of Amotz Zahavi than on Race.

(“Ojkjjh” — Bee’s dog)

“You’re cool,” Race replied, carding his fingers through Spot’s hair, and Spot leaned his head back slightly into Race’s touch.

Admittedly, Race was disappointed Petey was there, but there was something fun about watching Spot work—mostly ignoring him, to focus on the task at hand, but giving him enough attention to still make him feel noticed and wanted. He didn’t know if Spot was doing it on purpose or not. Either option was good. If Spot was making a conscious effort to include him, that was super considerate. If he just naturally gravitated towards Race, well, that was great, too. Just so long as he  _ wanted _ Race. That was what mattered.

* * *

“So, how’s the ‘real’ hot cocoa?” Spot asked, having made it on the stove with milk and chocolate syrup.

Aunt Beth had gotten home about nine, and Petey left around the same time with the plan to meet again during lunch tomorrow.

“I dunno, I’m so used to Swiss Miss now, I think my tastebuds have dried up,” Race teased.

“Una-fucking-ppreciative,” Spot complained, crossing his arms. “I buy you sprinkles, I buy you chocolate syrup, and what do I get? Sass.”

“You got any specific sorta ‘thank you’ in mind?” Race asked with a lopsided grin and a quirked eyebrow.

“Not tonight. In fact, not with my poor aunt home ever again.”

Race pouted. “Now who’s unappreciative?”

“Probably Beth,” Spot chuckled.

Race nodded sagely. “Voyeurism is more common than you’d expect.”

Spot cringed so hard. “Oh, gross. Do  _ not _ talk about my aunt voyeur-ing me.”

“You’re the one that brought it up!” Race retorted, gleefully indignant.

Luckily, Spot had taken a moment earlier to grab his Boyfriend Coupons from his room and stow them in his back pocket. He took them out, quickly thumbed through them until he found the mute button, tore it out, and handed it to Race.

Race took a second to glance at it, then gasped in mock-outrage.

“Just drink your chocolate,” Spot said, holding in a snicker at Race’s expression.

Race pouted as dramatically as one could while silent; crossed arms, furrowed brow, pouty lips, the whole bit.

Spot grinned. “Damn, how long does this last?” A look of brief horror passed behind Race’s eyes, and Spot grabbed the coupon back from him, checking it over to make sure there was no time limit noted, and indeed there wasn’t. “In that case, baby, I think you have to be quiet until I release you,” he suggested, leaning in towards Race a little bit.

Race’s pout condensed into a defiant frown, but he remained quiet.

“And if you have to be quiet,” Spot continued, “I may have to rethink my plans for the night.”

Race’s eyebrows dipped down, and his mouth opened in what would have been an indignant scoff, but again, he made no actual noise. He very distinctly mouthed, “Rude.”

Spot held his hands up in surrender. “Hey, if you’ve changed your mind—”

Race closed his mouth to pout again, but Spot recognized the glimmer of anticipation in his eyes.

Spot placed his hands on Race’s sides. “Have you changed your mind?”

Race shook his head quickly.

“Are you gonna be quiet, this time?”

By way of an answer, Race quirked his eyebrow again, halfway smirking. Spot mirrored his expression, waiting him out, and eventually, Race rolled his eyes and nodded, shrugging.

Spot smiled. “Good boy.”


	74. Someone Call Britney Spears Because Race is Toxic (NEER neer NEERNeeneer)

“Hey, are you good at trig?”

Spot shrugged. “Not in particular. Race probably is. Why?”

“I’ve got a PSEO class that I’m kinda struggling in,” Petey admitted. “Took it so I can avoid some of the math in college, but it’s kicking my ass.”

Spot nodded. “Well, if it’s math or science related, Race is probably a freaky genius at it.”

Petey smiled an awkward, almost pained smile. “Yeah, he’s kind of brilliant...”

“Yeah.” Spot cringed. “Am I being that douche who just talks about his boyfriend all the time?”

Petey laughed. “No, no, don’t worry about it. Sorry, I’m not trying to be awkward, it’s just a little...” He trailed off for a moment before starting again. “I’m not sure if Race told you; we were sort of a thing last year— Well, not really a  _ thing _ , but...”

“No, yeah, he told me.” Spot nodded.

“Oh.” Petey looked lost between relieved and a bit let down. “Right, cool.” After a second of hesitation, he asked, “Can I ask what he said?”

Oh, fuck. What was it that Race said? ‘He’s a bit of a bitch’? “Not much, just that you guys had a fling.”

“Right.” Petey’s expression sat just on the edge of a cringe.

Spot was cringing even harder, internally. “Look, we don’t have to talk about it...ever.”

“Right, sorry,” Petey answered sheepishly. “It’s just a bit awkward, since I had a thing for him, but like he said, it wasn’t really anything.” He smiled in an awkward, deflectively self-depreciating way. “Pretty much every gay guy at this school gets a crush on either Jack Kelly or Race Higgins at some point, and I’m the dumbass that went and got both.”

Spot chose to ignore the fact that, apparently, a lot of guys had a crush on his boyfriend. “Yikes.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna try and like, make a move on your boyfriend, or anything dumb,” Petey laughed.

Spot cracked a smile. “You’d better not.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“I could flatten you like a pancake.”

Petey laughed. “I believe you.”

* * *

_ Thoink _ .

Race staggered as he got hit in the side of the head with a dodgeball, and the basement of the church erupted into cheers and whoops. They had been playing swap dodgeball—divide the room in half, each team gets a side, and when you get hit, you switch to the other team. The game is over when one team collects all the people. Race was a speedy, wiggly boy, with (sometimes) very quick reflexes, and often ended up as the last man standing. Tonight, this was the case, and with his fall, the game was finally over.

Race got up, pointlessly dusting his legs off, and headed back towards the chattering group as Buttons called to conclude the evening. They had started a new sermon series: Heart, Healing, and Hepatology. Hepatology is the medicinal branch of study concerned with the liver and such. Buttons meant it as a metaphor for dealing with toxic people and situations, since the liver is one of the organs that flushes toxins from the body. It was strange and silly, but hit Race harder than he’d expected, as was the way with most of Buttons’ talks. The problem wasn’t that Race had a lot of toxic people in his life. Quite the opposite, actually. His family was great. His friends were great. His boyfriend was great. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean his life was free of toxicity, it just meant that all his toxicity came from himself, which—although he wasn’t happy to admit it—seemed to be coming more and more apparent. He’d been a total dick to Albert, and probably Jack as well. He’d been in trouble with his parents multiple times in recent history, he was jealous over Petey and Spot, and hardly any of it was properly justified.

Race was so busy brooding that he didn’t notice Buttons had dismissed everyone till people started heading for the door.

“Hey, Race.” Buttons sat down on the couch catty-corner to the couch where Race was sitting. “What’s goin’ on, man?”

Race looked over at him, surprised to be spoken to, the way one always is when lost in thought. “Sorry, just thinkin’,” he replied vaguely.

“You wanna talk?”

Race shrugged. “I guess tonight’s topic sorta got to me.”

Buttons nodded. “It can be a hard thing to talk about.”

“I know you said next week we’re gonna talk about how to deal with toxic people,” Race reaffirmed. It was a series, after all. Tonight was recognizing toxicity, and next week was part one of dealing with it. “But what about when you’re the toxic one?”

“Well,” Button’s paused for a moment, “then hopefully you recognize it in yourself, and you start taking steps to fix it.”

“Sure, but what do you do to fix it?”

“Depends on what it is.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and clasping his hands. “Sometimes it means changing our behavior. Sometimes it means reevaluating our beliefs and values.”

“I’ve been kind of a shitty friend, lately,” Race admitted.

Buttons smiled wryly. “We’re all shitty friends from time to time, Race. No one is perfect.”

“I guess,” Race mumbled.

“The hardest part about dealing with our own toxicity is recognizing it,” Buttons continued. “Most of us avoid doing things we know are wrong, so we think everything we’re doing is okay, and it’s uncomfortable to realize that you’ve been wrong, isn’t it?”

Race nodded. “It’s not been any active choices or whatever, I’ve just been, like, really selfish.”

“Well, God will always forgive you, you know that.”

“Which is great, don’t get me wrong,” Race assured him, “I’m just more focused on Albert’s forgiveness, right now.”

“What about your own forgiveness?” Buttons asked.

Race pursed his lips. “I guess that’s more of a tertiary concern.”

“Race, everyone makes mistakes. Holding onto them only breeds more toxicity.”

“I can’t really let it go if I haven’t fixed it yet, can I?”

“Depends. What does you feeling bad about it accomplish?”

“I dunno—I’m  _ aware _ of it. I can make the conscious choice to pay more attention.”

“You can make that decision without feeling bad.”

Race sighed. “I dunno if I can stop feeling bad while he’s still mad about it.”

“That’s because you’re a caring person,” Buttons said.

Race pouted. “Doesn’t help though.”

“I know, but Race...” Buttons let out a light sigh, turning his body more towards Race. “We all do toxic things. That doesn’t make us toxic  _ people _ . You are not a toxic person.”

“I’m a  _ stupid _ person,” Race muttered, more to be contrary than anything.

Buttons laughed. “Last I heard, you were a genius.”

“Geniuses can be stupid too!” Race insisted, laughing as well.

“Well, don’t be too hard on yourself, okay?”

“Yeah...thanks, Buttons.”

“Of course. That’s what I’m here for,” Buttons assured him.

There was quiet for a moment before Race asked excitedly. “So, when are you bringing your hubby to youth group?”

* * *

“Spot, oh my god, get it together,” Hot Shot huffed. They, along with Vince and Myron, were playing multiplayer Call of Duty, two to a team, and Spot had just died again.

“Shut up, I’m out of practice!” Spot complained. “All my consoles are back in fucking Philadelphia.”

“Weren’t you just home?” Vince pointed out.

Spot turned to look at him. “I will punch you in the nuts, Vince.”

“You sure you didn’t leave your fists back in Philadelphia?”

“You wanna find out?”

“Just don’t get blood on the carpet,” Myron said disinterestedly, managing to gun down Spot’s character again while he was distracted.

“You sick son of a bitch.”

“You’re distracted.” He shrugged. “Gotta get some while the getting’s good.”

“Speaking of getting some,” Hot Shot spoke up, “how’s the boy toy?”

“Very good. I got some last night. Thanks for asking,” Spot replied.

“Atta boy,” Hot Shot snickered.

“Hey, what’s up with you and that Peter guy?” Myron asked. “He’s gay, right? You gettin’ that, too?”

Spot choked on air. “Excuse you!?”

“Hey, I’m not judging, I’ve just noticed you two hanging out a lot, like at lunch and stuff. He your next conquest, now that you can put a check mark in the ‘Race’ box?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Spot fumed, and the game was forgotten for the time being. “Race is not a fucking checkbox!”

Myron’s eyes widened a bit. “Shit, you’re actually gonna try for something serious, aren’t you?”

Vince cringed. “Oh, Spot, Higgins is not the person to try that with.”

“Because you know him so well?” Spot asked.

“I’ve been going to school with him for years. He doesn’t do ‘serious’.”

“He does move pretty fast, man,” Hot Shot agreed.

“Jesus Christ,” Spot grumbled, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Either way, I’m not cheating on him. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I didn’t mean  _ cheating _ ,” Myron said, “I meant moving on.”

Spot gritted his teeth. “Right, because the fact that I  _ just said _ I slept with him  _ last night _ sounds a lot like moving on.”

“Hey man, sex doesn’t have to mean depth.”

He huffed. “Well, Race is my boyfriend, we’re a relationship, and I don’t intend to change that any time soon.”

“Does  _ he _ know that?” Vince asked.

“Yes.”

His eyebrows went up in exaggerated surprise. “And he didn’t turn tail and run?”

“Wow, you really don’t think it’s possible that he could actually want to be with me, do you?” Spot scoffed. “You don’t know him. You don’t know anything about him.”

“Dude, it’s not about you. You’re already in the running for the longest relationship he’s had.”

“What is it about, then?”

Vince shrugged. “Fuck if I know, like you said, I don’t really know him. I just know I’ve never seen him stick with the same guy for more than like, three months.”

“No one ever stuck with  _ him _ for more than three months,” Spot corrected him. “No one ever put in the effort.”

Vince held his hands up in surrender. “I’m sure you know better than I would.”

“I do.”

Hot Shot chuckled. “Damn, dude. You’re fucking whipped.”

Spot glared at him. “I might be, but at least I’m getting some.”

Myron snickered. “You always go all in, or d’you think Higgins is some kinda special?”

“Both,” Spot answered plainly. It was the simple truth. He cared about all the boys he dated, and he was damn good at it too, but lord knows Race was something else entirely, in every way.

“So the tough boy thing is just a front?” Vince teased.

Spot smiled venomously. “Y’see, Vince, this is why you don’t have a girlfriend. You think tough guys can’t be nice to their partners.”

Hot Shot and Myron laughed as Vince sputtered in quiet, toxic masculinity.

Content that he had won that argument for the time being, Spot smirked at Vince, then took out his phone to text Race.

* * *

Spot: Hey, I love you.

Pretty Boy: Ha

Pretty Boy: Gay


	75. Lonely Corn Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race hangs out with his friends, Finch is a DILF, Race sexually harasses a Wal-Mart employee, this is basically a 2843 word fever dream.

On Thursday, Race and Albert went home with Jack after school to hang out for a bit before Race headed to the dance studio. Medda’s house was amazing—like, ‘secret staircase in the pantry cause the house was made when servants’ quarters were a thing’ amazing—and she’d had the basement transformed into the ultimate hangout for Jack, Charlie, and any friends they had over.

“Why do we ever hang out anywhere else?” Race asked, aggressively spinning a row on his side of the foosball table and sending the tiny soccer ball careening off the backboard next to Albert’s goal.

“‘Cause our houses are closer to school,” Albert said.

“Your butt is closer to school,” Race retorted.

“Your mom,” Albert shot back. Given, that joke was funnier when they were eleven and Race didn’t have a mom.

“Are you guys hungry?” Race asked, in a sudden and complete change of subject. “I’m hungry.”

“Uh, yeah. I can see what we have in the freezer,” Jack said, and he headed for the stairs.

“Hell yeah.” Race bounded after him, taking the stairs two at a time.

They wandered into the kitchen, Albert trailing behind, and Jack opened the freezer door. “Y’all want corn dogs?” he asked in a very put-on Southern accent.

“Sure.” Race shrugged, and Jack pulled the box out of the freezer. As he headed for the cabinet to get plates, Race turned to Albert. “How many bites d’you think it’ll take me to finish a corn dog?”

“Two,” Albert said.

“Bet. I’ll make it in one.”

“You’re just gonna...deepthroat a corn dog?”

Jack snickered. “It’s great practice.”

Race pointed to Jack enthusiastically. “See, that’s the spirit!”

“I’ll challenge you,” Jack said, grinning. “Albert can be the judge.”

“I don’t want to judge you guys deepthroating corn dogs,” Albert protested.

“You can be a contestant too, if you want,” Race offered with a shrug.

“You’re going to choke and die.”

“I don’t think so.” Race grinned. “Spot’s bigger than a corn dog.”

“I didn’t need to know that.”

Race just giggled deviously.

Jack popped a plate full of corn dogs into the microwave, grumbling, “Fuck it,” after reading the directions.

Race waved dismissively towards the microwave. “Eh, they’re pre-cooked, right?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, just won’t be as crispy, this way. Probably better for deepthroating, anyway.”

Race shook his head in agreement. “Yeah, crispy’s bad for deepthroating.”

“That’s a brand new sentence, right there,” Albert grumbled, leaning back against the counter.

“You’re just pouting cause no one is deepthroating _ your _ corn dog.”

Albert rolled his eyes. “Hey, speaking of, Jack—”

Jack groaned loudly, cutting Albert off.

“Take that as a no?” Albert chuckled.

“_ Still? _” Race was surprised, Jack was usually a pretty fast worker.

Jack huffed. “We’re taking things slow.”

“Oof.” Race cringed sympathetically, but didn’t bother to hide a snicker.

“Nah, nah, it’s fine,” Jack replied unconvincingly, showing his palms in surrender. “He’s...you know.”

Albert quirked an eyebrow. “Do we?”

“Well...” Jack blushed a little. “It’s none of your business what he is, is it?” And there was his fatal mistake, because nothing could grab Race’s interest like being told to butt out.

“He’s what?” Race asked, fully intending to bug and badger the information out of him, no matter how unimportant or uninteresting it might actually turn out to be.

“It ain’t my place to say!” Jack argued.

“He’s out of your league? He’s shy? He’s scared? He’s actually not into you? He’s too pretty to fuck and every time you try you just get stuck staring at him?”

“He’s a virgin! Okay?”

Race pursed his lips in mild surprise. “Huh, really?”

Jack turned to retrieve the corn dogs from the microwave. “Yeah.” He set the plate down on the counter. “So...yeah, we’re taking things slow.”

Albert hummed. “How’s that workin’ for you?”

Jack shot him a look of annoyance.

“Well, Al,” Race clapped Albert on the shoulder, “at least you aren’t the only one with a lonely corn dog.”

“Call my dick a corn dog one more time—”

* * *

Seeing as he and David were ‘taking things slow’, Jack was out of practice, and Race won the deepthroating contest. Of course, he did so by actually choking on a corn dog, which Albert had to dislodge by reaching into his mouth and grabbing the stick, but a win is a win.

“It wasn’t too big, I just got too excited,” Race grumbled.

“Yeah okay, man,” Albert handed him a glass of water, while Jack patted his back.

“You already won, Racer; you don’t need points for enthusiasm.” 

Race just pouted and grumbled more.

Albert hopped up and sat on the counter, pulling his phone out of his pocket and messing around with it. A crooked smile appeared on his face, and he snickered.

“Who ya talkin’ to?” Race asked, ever a nosy bastard.

“No one,” Albert said, “but your damn boyfriend viewed my Snap Story of you choking on a corn dog.”

Race snickered back. “Oh. Well, he’s seen that plenty of times.”

“Ah, Christ...”

“Hang on,” Race pulled out his phone to text Spot ‘thinking of you’, but was surprised to see a text alert on his screen—must’ve come in while he was deepthroating a corn dog. Swiping it open, he saw a message in the Dance Boiz group chat from Fonch:

“_ HOLY FUCK MY BABY’S GOT A HEARTBEAT _”

There was a reply from ‘Brojo’ that was just a bunch of hearts, and then another from Fonch.

“_ I’m sobbing oh my god I feel ridiculous _.”

Race laughed lightly. “Oh shit, we got a baby! Well, the start of one, anyway.” He quickly typed a reply. “_ Hell yeah man! _”

“Um...” Jack began hesitantly. “Whaaat are you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, one of my buddies from dance is pregnant—Well, his girlfriend is pregnant, though I don’t think they’re really dating...?” Race trailed off and then waved, dismissing the unnecessary pondering of Finch and Kaylie’s relationship status. “They had a doctor’s appointment today to see if there’s a heartbeat, and there is!”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Oh shit!”

“Yeah!”

“Do they...like...want it?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, it was an accident, but they’re gonna keep it,” Race explained.

“Ah.” Jack nodded.

This—unplanned pregnancy, abortion, birth—was a subject Race and Jack tended to skirt around, for obvious reasons.

“Yeah,” Race nodded as well, “he seems pretty psyched about it, now that it’s, like, settled.”

“Man, imagine wanting a baby,” Albert scoffed. “An’ I don’t mean, like, wanting kids. Imagine wanting a little potato human that shits and cries.”

Race laughed. “Imagine wanting kids.”

“Imagine kids,” Jack added.

“Imagine wanting.”

Albert rolled his eyes and batted playfully at Race’s shoulder. “Imagine shutting the fuck up. I didn’t mean to start this.”

“Too late, it’s started!” Race cooed as Jack sighed wistfully.

“Imagine fucking.”

With a smirk, Race replied. “I don’t have to.”

* * *

“So have you thought up baby names yet?” Race asked Finch as he loaded his jazz shoes into his bag after class. “I think you should name the baby ‘Fish Nugget’.”

Tommy Boy snickered, while Finch remained impassive.

“Fish Nugget?”

Race nodded. “Meaningful _ and _ elegant.”

Jojo rolled his eyes. “Okay, seriously though, Finch, are you thinking of names?”

“Not much,” Finch told them, hurriedly searching through his bag. He had been a few minutes late to class, so they hadn’t had time to talk at all beforehand. “Kaylie likes a bunch of biblical names, so— Ah, here we go.” He pulled out his phone. “Listen.” He played what was presumably a recording of the baby’s heartbeat, but to Race it sounded more like someone sawing through a table—ultrasound audio is funny that way.

Jojo beamed. “Wow. That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Finch replied breathily, swallowing hard, like he was maybe going to cry again.

A huge smile cracked across Race’s face. “That’s amazing, man.”

Tommy Boy knit his eyebrows in deep concentration, leaning in close to Finch’s phone to listen. He nodded for a moment, then shook his head. “Okay, ya got me. What the fuck is that?”

Jojo laughed as Finch looked at him incredulously.

“What the fuck is— That’s my baby you moron.”

Tommy Boy’s eyes widened comically in horror. “They make sounds in there!?”

Jojo laughed harder, and Race joined him.

“That’s the heartbeat!” Finch sputtered. “Jesus, you’re useless.”

Tommy Boy held his hands up in surrender.

“Anyway,” Finch huffed, tucking his phone back into his bag. “It’s, like, official. We can tell people now, and...” He let out a low exhale. “I’m really gonna have a baby. They even look kind of like a baby in there, now. I just—” He covered his face with his hands and shook his head. “Oh my god.”

Race gasped. “Holy shit, you’re gonna be a DILF!”

Finch’s shoulders shook as he laughed into his hands, and his voice came out muffled. “Yeah, okay.”

“What? You are!”

Jojo nodded. “I’m afraid he’s right, Finch.” God bless that bi streak.

“You’ll be the talk of the PTA,” Race agreed.

Now, Finch groaned. “I’ll be the talk of the PTA for being a teenage dad, not for being hot.”

“Why not both?” Tommy suggested.

“And anyway,” Race pointed out, “you won’t be a teenager, by the time lil’ Fish Nugget’s in school.”

Finch slung his bag onto his shoulder, meeting Race’s eyes as he straightened up. “We are not naming our child ‘Fish Nugget’.”

* * *

“Wait! No! We need fish sticks!” Race cried out as the cart he was seated in went sailing past the frozen dinner aisle in Wal-Mart.

“Why the fuck do we need fish sticks for Fruit Gusher pie?” Albert asked.

“No, they’re for Finch.”

Albert opened his mouth again, but Jack cut him off.

“Don’t ask. I don’t want to know. Just grab the twink some fish sticks and we’ll move on.”

“Thank you, daddy,” Race teased as Albert begrudgingly opened the freezer.

Albert grabbed a box of generic fish sticks and threw them at Race. “Disgusting.”

“You love me.” Race pouted as the box hit him in the chest.

Jack pushed the cart forward. “Now, what I’m thinking for the pie is that, if we make the crust out of fruit roll-ups, we should get some actual Fruit by the Foot brand to make the lattice on top, since it’s kinda long and skinny?”

“Yeah, that’ll probably work best,” Albert agreed as Race absently mused, “I wonder how much weight a fruit roll-up can hold...”

Albert made a face. “What?”

“Y’know, like, could I use fruit roll-ups as backpack straps?”

“Why would you want to?” Jack asked.

“For science!”

They turned down the correct aisle, and Albert took a box of roll-ups off the shelf to inspect it. “What flavor do we want for the crust?”

“Do they have some sorta wild berry bullshit?” Race asked.

Albert nodded and handed the box to Race.

“You guys think we could get Romeo to eat some, if we don’t tell him what it is?” Jack asked, calling back to a friend of theirs from school that we’ve mentioned literally once before in chapter one.

Albert scoffed. “I think we could get him to eat some, if we _ do _ tell him what it is.”

“The kid has a heart for discovery,” Race agreed, nodding.

“‘Discovery’.” Albert scoffed again as he grabbed a couple more boxes. “It’s a fucking fruit roll-up, not some foreign delicacy made out of cock and balls.”

“Well, I doubt we’re gonna find foreign cock and balls at Wal-Mart, Al,” Jack pointed out.

Race agreed, “Not for sale, anyway. Unless...”

“Unless...?” Jack prompted Race to continue.

“We should find an associate and ask if they have foreign cock and balls for sale.”

“No, Race, we shouldn’t—”

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Oh my _ god _.”

“Hi.” Race offered the poor, unwitting sales associate his most charming—and most dangerous—smile. “We’re looking for some nice, exotic dicks—”

Jack was already maneuvering the cart away quickly as a hand—Albert’s—wrapped around Race’s head and slapped over his mouth.

“Ignore him. He’s got bipolar, y’know, he’s got no idea what he’s saying.”

Naturally, Race bit down on Albert’s hand, but Albert didn’t even flinch, so he licked him. Albert didn’t react to this, either, so Race started yelling, “I’m being oppressed! I just want to buy some good, foreign cock and balls for my friend Romeo, but these chucklefucks won’t let me!” Of course, the whole thing was muffled by Albert’s hand, so it came out more like, “Ahmf beem oppremf! Ah umph wam ooh buh sm ghoo, forfem ogg n bah ffr mmh freh Omehoh, buhh hees chugglefuggs wohn’ leh me!”

By the time Albert released the kraken—the kraken, in this case, being Race’s mouth—they were far away from the poor sales associate.

“How are we supposed to find the good dick now!?” Race demanded, much louder than necessary.

Jack gestured with his arms out. “What do you mean? I’m right here.”

“You willing to donate your cock and balls to the culinary world, for science?” Race asked.

“...Well, no.”

“See? We need a different dick.”

“We _ need _ Fruit Gushers,” Albert argued.

“Well then onward, man!” Race declared, sweeping broadly with his arm and nearly smacking Albert in the face.

Albert grumbled as Jack turned the cart around, and they headed back towards the fruit snack aisle.

“I’m not sure how we’re gonna bake it, without it just melting...” Race mused.

“We’re not, dumbass,” Jack sighed. “It’s a no-bake pie.”

“Won’t it just fall apart?”

“Man, have you felt how sticky that shit is?”

“Okay that’s fair,” Race conceded. He waited until they were back within earshot of the sales associate before continuing loudly, “_ You know what else is sticky _—”

Jack punched him in the mouth.

* * *

The Higginses, along with Medda and Ms. K, had always been surprisingly open to the idea of school night sleepovers. The way they saw it, all their boys were going to the same place in the morning, anyway. They clearly had no idea how little the boys actually slept at these things.

Around two a.m., Jack had managed to fall dead asleep in a post-Fruit Gusher pie sugar crash, and Race had just finished drawing a heart on his cheek in Sharpie. Albert was reading something on Reddit, by the looks of it. The house was quiet.

“Should it be ‘R plus A’ or ‘A plus R’?” Race mused, tapping the tip of the Sharpie against his lip, having completely forgotten it would mark his skin just as easily as Jack’s.

“My name beats yours in alphabetical order,” Albert pointed out, “first and last.”

“Yeah, but ‘Race and Albert’ sounds better than ‘Albert and Race’.”

“It does not!”

“Yes it does!”

“Why did you ask the question if you’d already chosen an answer?” Albert huffed, turning back to his phone.

“Because I value your opinion, even if it’s wrong,” Race replied cheerfully, and went on to write ‘R + A’ in the middle of the heart on Jack’s cheek.

“You’re a dick,” Albert said, but there was very little bite to it, just a statement.

“Yeah, but that’s why you like me.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s _ why _.”

Race felt suddenly driven to ask why Albert _ did _ like him, but he was oddly afraid of what that answer might be.

Without even looking at him, Albert chuckled. “Dude, don’t overthink it.”

Race huffed. “Shut up, I wasn’t.”

“Yeah you were, an’ now you’re lyin’, too.”

“Shut up, I am not!” Race lied again, indignant.

“Whatever you say.”

They were quiet for a moment, and eventually Race spoke up. “Things are still weird, and I don’t like it.”

Albert looked up at him and frowned. “What?”

“Between us, everything still feels off.”

Albert shrugged.

“Are you still mad at me, or like, is there something else I should be doing?” Race asked.

Albert let out a heavy sigh. “Nah, I ain’t mad at you anymore, Race.”

“Okay, good, ‘cause I’m tryin’, I really am. I been a shit friend, and I wanna be better.”

“Yeah, I know.” Albert shut off his phone and dragged his fingers through his hair. “It’s whatever.”

Race frowned. “It’s _ not _ whatever.” He set the sharpie down on Jack’s chest and turned to properly face Albert. “You’re important to me, man. I fucked up.”

“If I say, word for word, that I accept your apology, will you feel better?” Albert asked.

Race thought for a moment, then frowned again. “Well, no, ‘cause I know it doesn’t work that quick and easy.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Albert leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Race shrugged. “I dunno. I guess nothing. I just wanna make sure you’re still my best friend.”

“‘Course I’m still your best friend.”

Race nodded. “Okay, good.”

“That it, then?”

Race shrugged again. “I guess.”

“Cool.” Albert picked his phone back up. “You wanna watch Tik Toks?”

Race rolled his eyes, “Yeah, sure,” and pitched over sideways, landing with his head and shoulders in Albert’s lap.

Albert angled the phone so they could both see and pressed play on some video.


	76. Quesadilla Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race is whiny, Spot is whipped, and that’s pretty much it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are also following The Torrid Affair of Kack Jelly and Kosher Dave from Manhattan: We’re on it, but the next chapter is a big boi. 
> 
> Meanwhile, we’re headed into some “fun” territory over here at Theories of Conflict! ;)

Back in Philadelphia, Spot’s Friday nights were for football and parties. He hadn’t been particularly popular, but going out with friends after a game was just expected, so he did it. It was a good time, anyway. Since moving in with Aunt Beth, Spot’s Friday nights had been kind of boring. They were for homework and getting screamed at by a small bird—and, apparently, cuddling a cute, whiny ass, blond boy.

“I miss you,” Race whined. He was laying on the couch with his head in Spot’s lap, as he had been for approximately fifteen minutes.

“What do you mean?” Spot asked, brushing his fingers through Race’s hair. “We go to school together. You see me every day.”

“That doesn’t count.” Race pouted. “We have class, and you’re always distracted at lunch.”

“Well, I’m not distracted, now.”

“Yes you are,” Race retorted, gesturing to the TV that, although on, had been almost entirely ignored since they got to Beth’s house.

Spot grabbed the remote and turned it off. “Better?”

“Only if you’re gonna pay attention to me, now,” Race teased.

“I’ve been paying attention to you!”

“Not all the way.” Race pouted some more. Clearly his mind was made up on the matter, so there was no use arguing.

“Well, now I am.” Spot brushed his fingers through Race’s hair again.

“Well good.” It seemed like Race didn’t have any specific end goal in mind, he just wanted to pout.

Spot rolled his eyes. “Alright,” he pushed Race up off his lap, ignoring his whine of protest. “You want food?

“What kind of food?” Race asked, assuaged by the prospect.

“What do you want?”

“Quesadilla.” His pronunciation was wildly incorrect, similar to the way Texans pronounce ‘Amarillo’.

Spot snickered and went to get his coat from the front closet. “Well, come on. I’ll get you a quesadilla.” He pronounced it as wrong as Race.

“Aww, hell yeah. I knew I was dating you for a reason,” Race answered happily, hopping up off the couch.

Spot pulled out an extra coat—because of course Race hadn’t worn one—and held it out for him. “And here I thought it was my irresistible good looks and charming personality.”

“Well, I guess I’m just the total package.” Spot changed his grip on the coat and held it by the shoulders so Race could slip his arms in.

Race, however, ignored his offer in favor of snickering at his choice of words. “Damn right you are, and one hell of a package at that.” He capped the sentence with an over-exaggerated wink.

Spot chuckled. “Baby, will you please just put the coat on?”

“I don’t get cold!” Race whined.

“Oh, bullshit!”

“I don’t! I’m warm blooded!” he insisted. “It’s why I’m so hot.” And he winked again.

“Oh my god,” Spot sighed, tossing the coat over his arm and grabbing Race’s hand.

“Taco Bell should deliver!” Race complained as Spot dragged him out the door.

* * *

“This isn’t Taco Bell.”

Spot turned off the car. “No, it’s a restaurant. I’m taking you to dinner.”

Judging by the look on his face, Race was delighted, but of course he had to be a little shit about it. “Well damn, if I’d known that, I’d’ve said, like, steak or something.”

Spot smiled. “Well, too bad. It’s quesadilla time.” He unbuckled and stepped out of the car, and Race followed.

“Woo, quesadilla time!”

They went inside the restaurant and were seated by a window. 

“This is nice,” Race said, looking around absently after they’d placed their drink orders.

“Came here once or twice when I was a kid,” Spot told him. “When I first got into football, Mark’d take me out to dinner when I won a game.”

“Nah, I meant, like, us going out. Though I guess it’s a nice place, too.”

“Oh.” Spot nodded, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “Yeah, well, I should take you out more, anyway.”

“Oh, no I didn’t mean, like—” Now, Race looked a bit uncomfortable as well. “I just meant we haven’t done a lot of ‘us’ stuff, lately.”

“Exactly.”

“We should go to a movie sometime soon,” Race suggested. “Sneak in weird snacks, make out in the back row, see what we can get away with before we get kicked out, all that good stuff.”

“I’m not going to see the weird cat movie with you,” Spot deadpanned.

“Oh come on, it’s gonna be so bad!” Race whined.

The waitress arrived with their drinks, but Race was far from done. He turned to the waitress and fixed her with a serious gaze. “Okay, so Cats, right? Inarguably a theatrical masterpiece.”

Spot choked on his soda.

The poor waitress shook her head with an awkward smile and started to say, “I don’t know—” but Race was already too far gone, and he launched into a monologue on how misunderstood and criminally underappreciated Cats actually was. She looked to Spot, and he smiled.

“Why don’t you come back in a few minutes?”

“If you think I’ll be done by then, you’re  _ wrong! _ ” Race announced gleefully.

The waitress nodded and scurried away, and Spot reached across the table to grab Race’s hands.

“Racer, darling, light of my life, you don’t have to go over this again. I know the cat musical was, like, your first exposure to dance or whatever. I know you saw it on Broadway a few years ago. I know your favorite cat is...” Ah, fuck, what was the damn thing’s name? “...orange, and you want to be tag-teamed by the good and evil twins.”

“They aren’t  _ twins _ , Spot,” Race answered reproachfully. “They might not even be brothers, depending on which fool you ask.”

“Noted.”

“I just don't get how so many people don’t like it,” Race continued indignantly.

Judging by the signs, if Spot didn’t do something to derail him quickly, he was about to lose Race to yet another musical theater rant. God only knew how long the boy could go before he lost steam.

“How’s your bio project coming?” Spot asked quickly and Race stammered to a halt in the middle of a sentence about how you can’t find any other show with a tap-dancing bug-kinnie mom.

“Oh, it’s fine. Alex wants to do genetics, and I’m fine with whatever, so.” He shrugged.

“Genetics are cool,” Spot agreed. “Have you started, yet?”

“Only, like, outlining stuff,” Race replied. “I’m in no rush.”

“Yeah,” Spot scoffed. “You’d have done our paper in the last week if it weren’t for me.”

“And I’d have done a damn good job, too!” Race shot back.

Spot decided not to point out that Race’s hadn’t been in shape to do much of anything in the week leading up to the paper being due. “‘Course, babe.”

Race pouted—he’d been doing a lot of that. “Just cause I’m an idiot doesn’t mean I’m dumb.”

“Did I say that?”

“Didn’t have to.”

Apparently sensing that the coat was clear, the waitress ventured back over. “Are we ready to order?”

Race slammed both hands onto the table and turned to face her again. “Are you ready to open your heart to our lord and savior The Rumpus Cat!?”

* * *

Race ended up being a rather expensive date, not because the quesadillas he ordered were particularly expensive, but because Spot was compelled to give the waitress a generous tip for her very patient service. Every single time she came back, even just to refill their drinks, Race derailed the conversation to tell her something else about Cats, and by the end, the poor dear thing had conceded that ‘maybe she should rent it sometime’. Finally, Spot managed to get Race out the door with an arm around his waist and a promise that date night could continue back at Beth’s house.

“Is Beth home tonight?” Race asked as he buckled his seatbelt.

“Yeah, but super late,” Spot replied, quickly checking his phone before getting on the road. “I don’t know why she won’t just pick a shift and stick to it.” He had a text from Petey—“ _ Which of the articles are you reading? I’ll start on the others tomorrow _ .”—so he took a second to reply before shifting the car into gear.

“Who’s’at?” Race asked.

“Petey.”

He huffed in clear displeasure. “Seriously?”

“Uh...yeah.” Spot frowned. “He had a question about the project. Why?”

“I just thought the whole point of tonight was you paying attention to  _ me _ , not  _ him _ .”

He sputtered, “Wh— I  _ am _ paying attention to you.”

Race grumbled something inaudible before continuing at a regular volume. “I get that it’s your project, you need to do it, I just don’t like that it’s with  _ him _ .”

“What are you so worried about?” Spot asked, growing slightly frustrated. He didn’t think he had done anything wrong, had he? All he did was answer a text.

“Well he’s not exactly my biggest fan, and with you spending so much time with him, I just—”

“What are you talking about, Race? He’s  _ nice _ .”

If anything, this just seemed to further displease Race. “Yeah, of course he is.”

Spot huffed. “What do you want from me, Tony? He’s nice, and he’s my project partner.”

“Yeah, so was I,” Race grumbled.

“You weren’t nice.”

He scoffed angrily. “Well I’m  _ so glad _ that your new one is.”

Spot went ahead and put the car back in park. He let out a heavy sigh and slumped back in his seat. “Baby—”

“No it’s fine,” Race interrupted. “I’m fine. Just forget it.”

“Baby,” Spot started again, “I didn’t fall for my project partner last Fall, I fell for you.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Race grumbled.

Spot sighed again. Part of him wanted to apologize, though he wasn’t sure what he would be apologizing for. On the other hand, he didn’t want to give in, to give any credence to Race’s jealousy. “Do you want to go back to my place, or do you want me to take you home?”

“I wanna go back to your place.”

“Okay.” He put the car in gear yet again and pulled out of the parking lot.

Race was uncharacteristically quiet the whole way back to Beth’s house and Spot didn’t like it one bit. He didn’t like that Race was upset, especially since it was because of him, and especially since there was nothing he could do about it. Petey was his project partner, and he couldn’t change that.

The short drive felt like hours. Spot was relieved when they made it back. “Hey,” he spoke softly, reaching over to brush his hand against Race’s cheek.

Race looked over towards him expectantly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, let’s just forget it, okay?”

“Okay.”

But apparently ‘let’s just forget it’ actually means ‘let’s dig deeper’, cause Race went on. “I’m just scared he’s gonna, like, talk shit about me or something, and you’ll realize he’s right, or that you like him better, and I’m just—”

“Woah, Race, he  _ likes you _ ,” Spot interrupted. “He’s got nothing bad to say about you, and even if he did, I would stick up for you. You know that.”

Race looked at him, surprised. “Whaddayou mean he likes me?”

“I mean he likes you,” Spot repeated. “He’s not talking shit about you.”

“Oh.” Race seemed honestly surprised by this. It almost hurt. Like sure, Race could be annoying and aggressive and a total asshole, but he could also be, you know,  _ not _ . He didn’t need anyone talking shit about them, and Spot would knock the teeth out of anyone who tried.

“Wanna go in?” Spot asked. “We can cuddle and watch Disney Plus.”

Race nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

They got out of the car, and Spot wrapped his arm around Race’s waist as they made their way inside the house. “What do you want to watch?”

“Whatever’s fine.”

He let go of Race to close the door behind them, and he shrugged. “My favorite as a kid was The Lion King?”

Race cringed. “Oh, yeah, I’m not a fan of that one.”

Spot almost asked why, but caught himself, because of course Race wouldn’t like The fucking Lion King, and Spot was an idiot. “Sorry...”

Race waved his apology away. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I said ‘whatever’.”

“Did you have a favorite?”

“I always liked The Jungle Book.” He shrugged, stepping on the heels of his shoes to slide them off.

“We’ll watch that, then,” Spot decided. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one since I was really little, anyway.”

“Bagheera is like, total daddy material,” Race said, sitting down on the arm of the couch and tipping over backwards onto the cushions.

Spot took a seat next to him. “Which one’s Bagheera?”

“The panther.”

“Christ, what is with you and cats? Are you a furry?”

“Look, some animals are just hot!”

Spot laughed, beginning the process of pulling up Disney+ on the TV.

“Am I wrong!?” Race demanded. “Look at Robin Hood.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“You mean you agree.”

“I plead the fifth.”

Race nodded. “Sounds like an agreement to me.”

“Well, you’re not getting  _ any _ cuddles, like that,” Spot shot back, and Race pouted.

“What if I don’t want cuddles?”

Spot started the movie and scooted to the other side of the couch. “Well, then it’s not a problem.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Race pouted more, swinging his legs around off the arm of the couch so he could sit up properly.

Spot smirked. “Wha’dja mean, then?”

“Well, now you’ll never know, ‘cause you left.”

“How will I ever go on?” Spot deadpanned, watching the movie now.

“You’re a dick,” Race shot back.

Spot just watched the movie, waiting him out. He knew it wouldn’t take long. As predicted, before they even made it to Trust In Me, Race had inched his way across the couch and nestled against Spot’s side. Spot smiled, put an arm around his shoulders, and kissed his temple. Well, fuck, Hot Shot was right; he was whipped.

“Shut up,” Race grumbled, but he was smiling.

“I didn’t say anything.” Spot moved to kissed his temple again, but at the last second, Race turned to intercept the kiss with his lips instead. At this point, Spot was familiar with this trick, and he rolled with it, placing his hand on the back of Race’s neck to keep him there.

After a minute Race broke the kiss, but didn’t pull away. Spot leaned his forehead against Race’s, giving him a second to breathe before surging forward and kissing him again, partially to to distract himself from the dawning realization that he had never been this gone over a boy, and that was kind of scary. Race made a quiet noise of surprise, reflexively trying to lean away, but quickly kissed him back nonetheless. Spot turned his body more towards Race, pulling Race in closer, dragging his fingers up into Race’s hair and brushing his tongue over his bottom lip. Race hummed appreciatively, draping his arms over Spot’s shoulder’s, and opened his mouth a little wider, offering Spot the opportunity to explore, which he gladly took. When he finally pulled away, still hanging onto Race, he was breathless.

“Have I mentioned recently,” he said, “that you’re motherfucking beautiful?”

“Not recently,” Race replied with an awful, beautiful, smug smile.

“Well, you are.” Spot buried his face in his neck. “Downright dangerous, is what you are.”

Race giggled. “Why’s’at?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

For a second, Race was concerningly quiet, but then asked. “How’s that dangerous?”

He clearly didn’t realize how big of a question that was.

Spot didn’t like giving people the power to hurt him, but somehow, Race had gotten a tight grip on his heart, and he could crush it if he wanted. Spot had loved before, and he had been  _ in love _ before, but this?

This wasn’t something he could just walk away from.

Race wasn’t someone he could just walk away from.

He pulled back, just far enough to meet Race’s eyes. “How is it not?”

A small twist of a smile appeared in the corner of Race’s mouth. “Spot Conlon, are you afraid I’m gonna break your heart?”

Spot frowned, grumbling.

Race moved his hands to cup Spot’s face, gently brushing his thumbs over his cheeks. “Well, I wanna say ‘I would never do that to you’, but I got no fuckin’ idea what I might do on accident. I’ll try my best not to, though.”

And that was all Spot could ask for, wasn’t it? He placed his hand on top of Race’s and placed a gentle kiss onto the tip of his nose.

“I love you,” Race said quietly, and Spot would probably die before using the word ‘butterflies’ to describe anything going on in his body out loud, but butterflies definitely happened. Luckily, Race seemed unaware of any emotionally entomological goings-on as he closed the small distance between them to kiss Spot again. Spot sighed contentedly and hooked his arms around Race’s back. He pulled Race into his lap, and Race shifted to straddle his legs.

“Y’know,” Race murmured, not pulling away too much, so his lips brushed over Spot’s as he spoke, “judging by who I am as a person, I’m surprised it’s taken me this long to make out with someone during a Disney movie.”

Spot laughed lightly. “Well, I’m honored to be your first.”

“Yeah, I’d be honored if you’d shut up and kiss me.”

“You’re the one who brought it up, pretty boy.” He kissed him anyway, sliding his hands up his back and tangling his fingers in his hair.

Race hummed appreciatively, slinging his arms around Spot’s shoulders. He pushed closer against his chest as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, responding hungrily. Spot let him have his way for a minute, then pulled his hair, forcing him back so he could pepper his cheeks with hard kisses instead. Race let out a heavy breath at the brief roughness, and arched slightly, pressing his hips forward against Spot. In hindsight, Spot should have known there was no way they would be able to just watch a movie without Race weaseling his way into his pants. At the moment, though, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“How are you always so hot?” Race whined. “Like,  _ always _ . It’s not fair.”

Spot laughed. “You’re one to talk, gorgeous.”

“Yeah, but you don’t even do it on purpose.”

“How do you know?” He let go of Race’s hair and gently tickled his sides instead. “Maybe it took years of practice for me to get this hot.”

Race wiggled, taking the opportunity to lightly grind down against Spot, and smacked at his hands, giggling. “‘S ‘at why you moved away? So you could have a sexy Cinderella transformation and come back to sweep me off my feet?”

“Exactly. I spent my whole life playing football, just for you.”

He laughed brightly. “Lucky me.”

“Damn right!” Spot tickled him again. “Do you know how many concussions I’ve had?  _ Five _ . The doctor threatened me with  _ death _ , last time.”

Race laughed again, wriggling sideways now in an attempt to escape the tickling. He failed, because Spot just followed him. Race tumbled completely sideways then, out of his lap, laughing and flailing, and accidentally cracked his shin into Spot’s ribs.

Spot coughed and caught Race’s leg before he could do it again. “Ow! Bitch!”

“I didn’t mean it!”

He grinned. “I don’t believe you.” Race tried to kick him again, but Spot had a hold of his foot. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t be bad.” He slowly raised his other hand, threatening to tickle again.

“I’ll bite you,” Race warned.

“Will you?” Spot let his hand fall and turned his face to nuzzle against Race’s ankle instead, keeping eye contact with him the whole time.

Race narrowed his eyes at him, shifting on his back to prop himself up on his elbows. “I might.”

“You mean like—” Spot bit Race’s foot.

Race squealed, and yanked his foot out of Spot’s grip, recoiling briefly to kick him—it was more of a shove—in the shoulder. Spot laughed some more. Race was unreasonably cute when he was playful.

“Who’s the bitch, now!?” Race demanded, grinning.

“You. Always you,” Spot retorted. He dropped Race’s foot and flopped on top of him instead, kissing his cheek again.

Race grunted at the impact, and wrapped his arms around Spot’s waist.

“You comfy?” Spot asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He reached for the remote. “I wanna watch this movie. We have to go back, now.”

“Oh, I’m  _ sorry _ , did I distract you?”

“Yeah, bitch.” Spot managed to skip back a few scenes.

“You tellin’ me you got a problem with that?” Race teased, wiggling a bit under him to get more comfortable.

“Nah.” Spot scooted down so he could use Race’s chest as a pillow. He was shorter anyway, so this was a logical arrangement. “But now, I wanna watch.”

Race chuckled and settled down as well, situating himself to lean against the arm of the couch. After a moment, he began absently carding his fingers through Spot’s hair, and Spot didn’t think he had ever been as relaxed as he was, right then.

Race was like a damn dream—beautiful, smart, independent, sexy, wild, and sweet. He couldn’t believe he had not liked him for a while.

* * *

Race was happy. Despite the small argument about Petey, it had been a really nice evening. The surprise dinner date, the cuddling, The Jungle Book—it was nice. He wished they could go on forever this way—maybe in a place of their own, instead of Spot’s aunt’s house—but he wasn’t sure that could happen. Even if he didn’t fuck it up, even if Petey didn’t secretly hate him, and sneakily undermine the whole thing, Spot was still going to leave. Race  _ wanted _ long distance to work, he  _ wanted _ to try, no matter what he had to do, he didn’t want to lose Spot...but would it be enough? Could they really make it work on Skype calls alone? 

Race ducked his head down, burying his face in Spot’s hair. “Hey,” he mumbled.

“Mm?” Spot replied wordlessly.

“We’re gonna make it, right?”

He tipped his head up to look at Race, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Us.” Race gestured between them.

“Yeah, I got that.” Spot propped his elbow on the couch beside Race and pushed himself up. “Whatta you on about?”

“Y’know, like, long term.” Race blushed, feeling a little silly.

Spot hesitated for a really long time—you know, like, a couple seconds—and Race started to worry. Was this the question that finally scared him off? Had Race finally crossed the line?

Eventually, though, he did speak. “I kinda hope so, pretty boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is one (1) musical we love more than Newsies, and it is Cats.


	77. Men Are Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically "Angel Eyes" from Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again with Spot and Beth.

The weekend passed quickly, and unproblematically. Things were a little stiff after the fight on Friday, but by the time Monday rolled around, everything was fine, and Race was back to the usual ‘spend as much time as I can with Spot’ programming.

“So I was thinking I could come over, and if you want, we can watch Lion King tonight, since we watched my favorite—”

“We don’t have to do that, baby. I get it,” Spot assured Race. He looked away, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m, uh... I have a thing, after school.”

Race frowned a bit. “Oh, whatcha doin’?”

“Just some school stuff.”

“Oh, well I can just hang out while you’re doing whatever. I promise I won’t be distracting at all.” This was a lie, of course.

Spot pressed his lips together tightly. “It’s project stuff.”

Race’s face fell. “Oh.”

“Yeah, sorry...”

Race huffed. He knew it was silly, or even selfish, but he didn’t enjoy feeling like someone else was taking priority over him. “No, it’s fine. I get it. You’ve gotta work with Petey, and you don’t want me around.”

Spot let out a sigh that turned into a groan at the last second. “You know it’s not that I don’t want you around.”

“It’s that you don’t want me around when  _ he’s _ around.”

“...Well, yeah,” Spot said. “You don’t get along with him.”

Race huffed again. He wasn’t sure if Spot meant that as an accusation, but it sure sounded like one. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t like him as much as you do.”

“You don’t have to like him, just don’t be a bitch,” Spot grumbled.

“How am I being a bitch!?” Race demanded. “All I did was ask if you wanna hang out. Sorry I’m bummed that you’re choosing him.”

“I’m not choosing him, I already made plans with him.”

“You always have plans with him.” Of course, this wasn’t quite true; he just felt like every moment not with Spot was a moment wasted, because he knew he only had so much time before Spot left, and then it would just be awful Skype calls and texting.

“Except when I don’t,” Spot argued. “Come on, Race.”

“You can’t blame me for wanting to spend time with you!”

“I don’t. I blame you for wanting to monopolize my time.”

“I’m just trying to get as much as I can before you’re  _ gone! _ ” Race argued.

Spot faltered and paused for a moment, like he was processing, then scowled. “Oh my god, you’re still on that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Race sputtered, “was I supposed to just forget?”

In a huff, Spot grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the door, then out into the hallway. He took a deep breath, agitatedly dragging his fingers through his hair. “What’s this really about, Racer? Is it Petey or the military?”

“It’s you!” Race exclaimed. “It’s both! I wanna spend time with you while I still can, and I know we got projects, but—”

“While you still can?” Spot interrupted. “What do you mean, ‘while you still can’?”

”You’re leaving! You’re not going to college or trade school or straight into the workforce, you’re  _ leaving _ . And whether or not you come back, you’re still—”

Spot’s jaw dropped, and he recoiled like Race had just shot him in the stomach.

“— _ leaving _ ,” Race continued. “And what am I supposed to do about it—just pretend everything is going to go on like normal!?”

Spot didn’t answer. He turned to the side, eyes wide and bewildered, and he exhaled loudly.

Race crossed his arms, staring at him, and waiting for an answer. He was mad, sure, but he was also really, really sad. He didn’t want Spot to leave; he wanted to  _ be _ with him. And although this conversation had taken a turn for the angrier, that didn’t make it any less true.

“Is this going to be a sticking point for you?” Spot began, in that hard but quiet tone people use when they are well and truly furious.

“What do you mean ‘a sticking point’?” Race asked flatly.

“No, you’ve said your piece; let me get this straight,” Spot continues through gritted teeth. “You don’t care ‘whether or not I come back’, you only care whether I leave in the first place.”

Race sputtered. “I didn’t say that!”

“You don’t have to say it! I heard the same fucking bullshit from Ethan! But  _ Ethan _ didn’t give me shit for hanging out with other people in the meantime, because Ethan wasn’t fucking crazy!”

Now it was Race’s turn to gape at him, feeling very much like he’d just been punched in the chest.

“Jesus Christ.” Spot ran a hand fitfully through his hair. “I fucking love you.  _ Everyone _ warned me about you, and I didn’t listen, and I fucking love you, so if you’re just gonna cut and run the moment I enlist, don’t waste my fucking time. I will  _ not _ be another notch on your bedpost.”

“If I’m so  _ crazy _ , why do you even want me around?” Race snarled.

Spot tossed his hands up in defeat, stepping back. “Because I thought we could make it work.”

It felt like someone had just dropped an ice cube down the back of Race’s shirt. “You  _ thought? _ ”

“Yeah.” Spot smiled bitterly. “I thought.”

“So what—is this you dumping me?” Race asked, feeling his stomach twist in bitter dismay at the thought.

Spot swallowed hard. “No. No, I just...I need some space.”

Race pressed his lips together tightly. He’d heard that before, and the lingering and lying was always worse than being flat out dumped.

Spot turned to go, and Race wanted to stop him, but he didn’t, afraid that would make it worse. He was mad, he was hurt, but he didn’t want to lose him, so he watched him leave instead.

* * *

Spot skipped the rest of his classes. He didn’t eat lunch, didn’t look back, just got in his car and left. He didn’t even make it all the way back to Beth’s house before he had to pull over and just breathe for a minute. His hands were shaking a little bit, and he was seeing more red than road, so he parked at a McDonald’s and leaned his forehead on the steering wheel.  _ Whether or not you come back _ was still ringing in his head. Spot had been on the receiving end of a lot of shitty remarks in his life, but nothing had ever stung quite like that coming from Race.

The part that stung the most was that this was the same damn fight that tore Spot and Ethan apart, and it was happening all over again with Race. People managed long-distance relationships all the time, soldiers especially, but apparently Spot in particular wasn’t worth that effort. He sighed, running his hands over the back of his head. It felt like hiding, and maybe it was. He should have known better. He didn’t want to hurt Race.

Eventually, he uncurled himself and took a deep breath. He didn’t cry. Spot didn’t cry over boys, he wouldn’t let himself, but  _ damn _ if it didn’t feel like his heart had just been ripped out of his chest, stomped and spat on. Then again, Race wasn’t just any boy, was he?

Spot sighed, smoothing down his hair. They hadn’t broken up. They were still together. Maybe they could work it out, but at the moment, he just didn’t see how.

* * *

For the rest of the day, Race was distracted. He couldn’t pay attention or focus on anything, other than replaying the fight with Spot in his head. He couldn’t believe Spot had called him crazy. He’d heard it before, of course, and it always hurt—hell, it always made him furious—but hearing it from  _ Spot? _

He ended up skipping his last class and going home early, crashing onto the couch as soon as he got through the door.

“Hi, Tony!” Mrs. Higgins called from the office.

He just grunted loudly in response.

“Is everything okay?” she called back.

“No.”

He heard her footsteps as she entered the room. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Race lolled his head back against the back of the couch to look at her. “Me an’ Spot had a fight.”

She pursed her lips. “A words fight or a  _ fight _ fight?”

He groaned. “A words fight, mom.”

“Okay.” She sat down next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“He called me crazy...” Race mumbled.

Mrs. Higgins took a deep breath. “You’re not crazy. Why would he say that?”

“I asked if he wanted to hang out tonight, and he said he’s doing stuff with Petey, and I got upset, and we started talking about him leaving, and it all just got really messy.”

She reached over and rubbed his back. “I’m sorry.”

“Am I wrong? Wanting to spend as much time with him as I can before he leaves?”

“No, sweetie, but he might be feeling a little bit suffocated.”

“I guess, but I feel like he doesn’t get it. Like, he’s acting like it’s no big thing that he’s leaving. But he’s  _ leaving _ leaving. Not just an hour away or whatever,” Race lamented. “How am I supposed to just be totally okay with that?”

She smiled sympathetically and shook her head. “I don’t know, but that’s still months away.”

“I guess...” he mumbled, slumping further into the couch.

She moved her hand up to the top of his head and began fixing his hair. “It wasn’t okay for him to call you crazy. He should apologize to you for that.”

“I don’t think he’s gonna apologize...” Race replied, feeling tears itching behind his eyes. “I asked why he even wanted me around if I’m crazy, and he said ‘cause he thought we could make it work.” He paused to sniffle unhappily. “‘ _ Thought _ ’.”

“Oh, sweetie...” His mother pulled him into her arms and Race curled into her lap.

“I don’t wanna lose him,” he whimpered.

“You may have to make some compromises, then.”

“What am I supposed to do? If he’s already made his mind up...” he trailed off into another sniffle.

“All you can do is talk to him and see.”

* * *

Upon arriving home, Spot had laid down and stared at the ceiling for a while. He texted Petey and rescheduled their meeting for Thursday. Then, he turned on Dr. Phil, thinking other people’s problems would make his feel insignificant. Unfortunately, just about every problem seemed insignificant in comparison to losing Racetrack Higgins, and he had no idea what to do about that.

After a few unmoving hours, Beth arrived home. “Hey Sean,” she greeted him as she came inside.

“Hey,” he replied, hoping he didn’t sound as dead inside as he felt.

“Whoa, who rained on your parade?” She asked.

Damn it. “No one,” he lied.

Beth hummed, putting her coat up in the hall closet. “Well, tell no one I’m not too pleased with them upsetting my nephew.”

He groaned, rolling over onto his stomach to lightly suffocate himself in a decorative pillow.

A slight creak of the couch announced Beth’s proximity as she sat down on the arm, and she placed a hand on his shoulder. “What happened, sweetie?”

He sighed and rolled back over onto his back, not meeting her eyes. “I think I’m in the middle of the breakup.”

She gasped quietly. “Oh no, why?”

“I’m project partners with his ex, and he doesn’t want me to join the military after graduation.”

She frowned. “Well that isn’t his choice to make, is it?”

“No...”

Beth was quiet for a moment, then reached down to firmly pat his shoulder. “Come on, get up.”

He groaned some more. “I don’t wanna.”

“Yes, you do. Up.” She stood up herself, waving for him to do the same.

He reluctantly rolled into a sitting position, glaring at Beth as he did.

“Don’t give me that look,” she scolded, and she swatted at his shoulder again. “Come on, we’re getting ice cream.”

* * *

“Sean, do you know why I’m single?”

Spot paused with a mouthful of triple chocolate ice cream. “I figured it was the weird ass work hours, to be honest.”

Beth, shook her head, pausing to putting a spoon of butter pecan ice cream in her mouth. “It’s because men are trash.”

Spot choked and laughed, completely caught off guard by that assessment.

“They are!” Beth assured him.

“Not disagreeing.” Spot shoveled more ice cream into his mouth and slumped back into his chair.

“Every single one of them,” Beth lamented. “I don’t know if it’s how they’re raised, or if it’s just genetic, or what. It doesn’t mean they’re all bad,” she noted, “just that they’re all trash. Take your Racer, for example—from what I’ve seen, and heard, he really seems to love you, but he also seems to be an idiot.”

Spot scoffed. “Yeah, he’s a math and science prodigy, but he’s dumb as a box of rocks. You were at the hospital when he got his dumb ass stabbed.”

Beth chuckled. “True, though that’s not the angle I was going for.”

“What angle were you going for?”

“I think he really cares about you. I just think, in this argument you two had, he was going about it the wrong way.”

Spot gestured with his spoon for her to elaborate.

“Well, did he say why he doesn’t want you to join the military? Either way it isn’t his choice to make, but it might have been well meaning.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “He doesn’t want me to leave, period, ‘whether or not I come back’.” He made air quotes around the offending words and swallowing the sick feeling throat that came with them.

Beth’s eyes widened. “Oh, yikes.”

“Yeah.” Spot rested his elbow on the table and his head on his hand, poking at his ice cream and pretending that didn’t hurt as much as it did.

“That’s a really terrible thing to say, I’m sorry, Sean.”

He smiled sadly. It  _ was _ a really terrible thing to say, but Race had said it, and no matter what happened now, Spot didn’t know if he would ever forget what it sounded like in Race’s voice. “You think he meant it?”

“I don’t know, sweetie,” Beth answered.

Spot slumped back and sighed again. “Men are trash.”

Beth nodded. “Men are trash. I  _ do _ think he cares about you though. I just think it got a bit twisted.”

“Yeah. He cares about me as a sex object who might as well be dead if I’m not with him.” Spot shook his head. “God, who says that? Who says, ‘if you leave me, I don’t care if you die’?”

Beth cringed sympathetically. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

Spot grumbled nothing in particular, zoning in on the weird, splotchy pattern on the linoleum-tiled floor. He wanted to take the whole day back, start over that morning, and do  _ something _ differently—something so that Race wouldn’t say what he said and Spot wouldn’t say what he said back. Maybe not knowing would have been better. Maybe the extra time would have been worth the inevitable blow up at the end of it all. Spot didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do about any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops our hands slipped.


	78. (Not Very) Good for Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the interest of full disclosure, this chapter has been ready since before we posted the last one. I just wanted to let the last one marinate a bit. ;)

On Tuesday morning, for the first time in months, Spot wasn’t waiting for Race outside the AP Biology classroom. That on it’s own was almost worse than the fight from the day before. Was that it? One bad fight, and Spot was just done? Did Race really mean so little to him that he was just gonna call him crazy and bolt?

With an unhappy huff, Race readjusted his backpack on his shoulder, and headed into the classroom. Spot wasn’t in his usual seat next to Race’s, either. He had moved to an empty desk on the other side of the room. Although Race wasn’t exactly surprised, it still definitely hurt. He cast a heavy look towards Spot as he crossed the room to take his own seat, dropping his backpack to the floor as he sat down. Albert, in classic Albert fashion, took what was usually Spot’s seat, placing himself between Race and Spot.

“You okay?” he asked Race quietly. Race had given him a very basic rundown of what was going on.

“No,” Race replied sullenly, grateful that Albert was there, ever his valiant protector.

He tried to take some comfort in the fact that Spot looked about as miserable as he was. Hell, Spot had barely looked up from his desk since Race entered the room, and probably before. On one hand, served him right for calling Race crazy for basically no reason. On the other hand, seeing Spot so miserable was actually making Race feel worse instead of better. He didn’t want Spot to be unhappy, he didn’t want them to be fighting, he didn’t want them to be...whatever this was. Spot said he needed some space...did he mean, like, just right then? Or did he mean for a while? Was he breaking up with Race, but just not saying so? Was ‘I need some space’ the warning Race had asked for?

“This fucking sucks,” Race muttered to Albert.

In a rare show of physical affection, Albert clapped a hand onto his shoulder and held on for a second.

Race offered him a weak smile. “Thanks man.”

At least _ Albert _ wasn’t going to abandon him.

He cast a brief look over towards Spot, and saw Spot quickly look away. Race exhaled unhappily. Were they even going to talk about it, or was it just...done? No, it couldn’t be done, because Spot had said he wasn’t breaking up with Race, so they were still a couple until further notice.

* * *

“Dude.”

“Hm?” Spot looked up from the cafeteria spaghetti he’d been poking at for the last five minutes.

“You look like that pasta murdered your family or something,” Vince chuckled.

Spot flipped him off and went back to poking.

Myron and Hot Shot were more sympathetic.

“You talked to him yet?” Myron asked.

Spot finally gave up on eating and set his fork down. “No.”

“Are you gonna?”

“Well, yeah. I have to.”

“Are you gonna break up with him?” Hot Shot asked.

Spot groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t know. Depends on what happens when we talk, I guess.”

“Do you _ want _ to break up with him?”

“No. I want him to not have said what he said yesterday.”

“Well, too late for that,” Vince pointed out unhelpfully.

“Oh, come on, man.” Hot Shot smacked him on the back of the head. “Read the room.”

“What?” he complained. “I’m not wrong!”

“Yeah, but you’re not helping, either,” Myron said.

“Read the room,” Hot Shot repeated.

Spot rolled his eyes. Myron was right; Vince wasn’t helping, but neither were Myron or Hot Shot. Vince was right, too; it was too late to go back and redo yesterday, no matter how badly Spot wanted to. Maybe talking with Race would fix things, or maybe it would just make it worse, and he’d say more horrible things.

In the interest of fairness, Spot wasn’t particularly proud of some of the things he’d said either, but in comparison, he felt like he was justified. Calling Race ‘crazy’ may have been a low blow, but he _ had _ been acting pretty crazy. Spot hadn’t done anything wrong, and Race had just gone off. He knew he was biased towards his own point of view, but try as he might, he couldn’t see this from Race’s. How could telling someone—someone you supposedly _ loved _—you didn’t care if they died or not be anything even approaching okay? Fuck, Spot had cared a shit ton about Race dying when he got stabbed, and they hadn’t even been friends, then.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a sudden, light kick to his ankle. “Yo, earth to Spot.” Apparently Vince had been trying to get his attention.

He snapped, “What?”

“Whoa, chill, I’m not the one you’re fighting with! I was just sayin’ we should ditch the rest of the day and do something to get your mind off it.”

“Man, I would, but I already skipped half a’ yesterday,” Spot sighed.

“How about after school?” Vince suggested. “We can raid Myron’s dad’s liquor cabinet.”

“We actually can,” Myron confirmed. “He is both out of town and on the wagon.”

Spot chuckled. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You know what they say;” Vince continued, “best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, and barring that, it’s getting so drunk you don’t even remember them anymore.”

Hot Shot nodded sagely. “Praise the Lord, amen.”

The school bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period, and Spot had eaten exactly nothing. He sighed again, then stood up and took his tray to the nearby trash can. Naturally, he passed Race on his way back towards the door, and it felt weird to walk right by him, so he stopped.

Race was talking to Jack, and he glanced up when Spot stopped. For half a beautiful second, it looked like he was going to smile, and everything was going to be normal, but then he didn’t, and it wasn’t, because yesterday had happened.

After an awkward moment, Race spoke. “Hey...”

This was Spot’s last opportunity to pretend it didn’t happen, forget all about it, and move on. He didn’t take it. “I know we don’t have a lot of time before class, but can we talk?”

Race glanced briefly at Jack and Albert, but stood up. “Sure.”

They walked with a solid six inches more than normal between them out of the cafeteria, to a stairwell at the end of the hallway.

“So uh, what’s up?” Race asked, as if he didn’t very well know.

Spot barely managed to swallow the irritated scoff that threatened to come out of him. “Did you mean it?” he asked instead. “When you said it doesn’t matter whether or not I come back?”

Race sputtered, and a look of understanding dawned on his face. “What? Oh my God, of course it matters! That’s not what I meant at all!”

Spot was simultaneously relieved that Race didn’t mean it and annoyed that Race had somehow missed the implications of his own words entirely. “What did you mean?” he asked.

“I just meant it’s still scary. You leaving at all is scary.”

The ‘get your late asses to class ASAP’ bell rang, and Spot turned his head towards the sound. He should really get the class. He had missed the day before and...

And, at least at the moment, Race was more important.

“What are you scared of?”

“Losing you, stupid!”

Spot laughed breathily. “Babe, you’re not gonna lose me because I enlist. If you lose me, it’s...probably gonna be because you’re an idiot, to be honest.”

Race huffed. “Well yeah, that’s what I’m worried about. Who’s supposed to keep me in check if you aren’t around?”

“Jack and Al have been doing it for years without me; I’m sure they can manage.”

“I wouldn’t say they keep me in check,” he mumbled.

Spot sighed. “Do you need a hug, baby?”

This just made Race look more unhappy. “No.”

“What do you need?”

“I dunno, maybe an _ apology? _”

Ah. Just when Spot thought things were going well. “Well, I haven’t gotten one of those either, pretty boy.”

Race chuckled bitterly. “It was a misunderstanding, Spot, and I’m sorry it happened. Now do we wanna take a second to look at you calling me _ crazy? _ Cause I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a misunderstanding.”

Spot shook his head. “It wasn’t. Race, you bought a live animal—a pretty expensive one, I looked it up—and put it in my locker to spite me. You pestered a stranger to buy you booze not to drink, but to start a dumpster fire, and you pestered him until he stabbed you. You’re dating a guy who broke your face because he had a crush on you! You’re crazy!”

For a second, Race just stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Then a scowl hardened on his face. “Fuck you, Sean,” he snarled.

“Why? What’s wrong with that?” Spot insisted, stepping closer to Race. “Tony, you’re crazy, and I wouldn’t change you. I’m crazy about you.”

Again, Race stared at him, frowning this time. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Spot agreed, “but I’m honest.”

“I’m not crazy,” Race said.

“I won’t argue with you.”

Race took a breath like he had something else to say, but whatever it was died before it got out.

Spot set his backpack down on the floor, resigning himself to missing this period. “So what do we do now, hm?”

“Whaddayou mean?”

“You’re mad at me. I get that. We haven’t even talked about the Petey issue. We’re beyond late for class, right now.”

“Oh, okay. I thought you meant, like, are we breaking up.”

“That, too.”

“That would sorta defeat the purpose of the whole ‘I don’t want to lose you’ thing,” Race pointed out. “Though on the other hand...” He paused, and his voice took on that broken quality of when one is trying not to cry. “I don’t think we’re very good for each other...”

Spot instinctively reached out to him, to comfort him. “Why not?”

“You just laid the whole list out! I’m crazy, and you’re an asshole. That’s not a healthy combination!”

“Well, why couldn’t it be?” He put his hands on Race’s shoulders. “Fuck it, Race. I love you. Let’s start being good for each other.”

Goddammit, now Race _ was _ crying.

“Tony, hey...” Spot cupped his cheek and brushed his tears away.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffled, “this is dumb. I hate this.”

“You need a hug,” Spot said, and it wasn’t a question this time.

Race leaned into his embrace without argument. Spot held him securely and rubbed his back. Secretly, he needed the comfort, too. Race wrapped his arms around him in return and muttered another quiet apology.

“I’m sorry too, baby,” Spot told him.

“I love you.” Race said softly.

“I love you, too.”

Before yesterday, before the fight, Spot had thought he and Race could make this work. After the fight, he hadn’t been so sure. Now, though, he knew they could, but it wasn’t just going to fall into their laps. They had to work for it.

“I’m going to pay more attention to you,” Spot promised. “I’m going to make more of an effort.”

Race nodded. “I’ll stop being such a bitch about you doing the things you gotta do.”

“If you’re free tomorrow after school...?”

“Well, it’s pizza night, but I can do something after.”

“Spend the night with me.”

“Yeah,” Race smiled, “yeah okay.”

That smile was worth a million dollars, and Spot had no choice not to smile back.


	79. Race and Spot Loving Each Other for 3411 Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because they deserve a break, and so do you. ;)

“So I was reading about love languages.”

“You mean, like, French and Italian and whatever?” Race clarified.

“Babe, gorgeous,” Spot chuckled, “those are ‘Romance languages’. I mean, like, the different ways people show love.”

“Oh.” Race blinked. “I knew that.” He spun around in Spot’s desk chair to face Spot, where he sat on the bed. “What about them?”

Spot shrugged. “I was just curious. Anyway, my point is, how and why is yours, like, all of ‘em?”

“Oh, well that’s easy, baby,” Race replied easily, having no idea what the love languages specifically were. “I’m a needy bitch.”

Spot laughed.

“What are yours?” Race asked.

Spot laid back on his bed, his legs still bent over the edge. “Quality time, I guess. Like, I don’t really need anything in particular, just you.”

Race couldn’t help but smile as he got up and crossed the room to flop onto the bed next to Spot. “That’s pretty gay.”

“Says the guy with five love languages.”

“Well yeah, I’m the gayest gay that’s ever gayed.”

Spot reached up absently and brushed his fingers against Race’s cheek, and Race smiled softly.

“Hey.”

Spot’s gaze snapped to his. “Hey.”

Race rolled over onto his side to face him. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’.” It wasn’t the kind of ‘nothin’ with a secret behind it. It was the ‘I’m just touching you because I like you’ kind of ‘nothin’.

Race smiled again. “Okay.”

This was nice, he liked this. Just being with Spot. Not fighting, not fucking, not talking, not really doing anything. It was good.

“It’s late,” Spot said. “Wanna cuddle and watch movies on my phone?”

“Sure,” Race agreed.

Spot got up to turn the light off, and Race set about making the pillows into a pile for them to lean on at the head of the bed.

“What do you want to watch?” Spot asked as he climbed in and leaned against the pillows.

“Let’s watch some dumb competition show, so we can critique and make fun of people who are actually more talented than us,” Race suggested, scooting over to cuddle into his side.

“American Ninja Warrior it is.”

* * *

Race fell asleep during American Ninja Warrior, curled up on Spot’s chest and breathing slowly. Spot stayed up for a few more episodes, gently petting his hair and occasionally kissing his forehead. He enjoyed the pressure on his chest and the rhythmic rise and fall of Race’s back. He didn’t enjoy the drool nearly as much.

Spot preferred to sleep shirtless, which was normally great for cuddling, but now he had a small puddle of spit just to the side of his sternum, and it was not great. He paused the show to take a photo on Snapchat, using the front-facing camera to capture Race, the puddle, and his own slightly disgusted expression. He captioned it ‘He can never say I don’t love him’ and posted it on his story.

A few seconds later he got a reply to the story from Anna, his New Year’s buddy. It was a picture of the upper left quarter of her face, mostly just forehead and hair—since when was her hair fire truck red? “ _ Oh gross, you guys are like, super cute _ .”

Spot replied right away with text. “ _ Congratulations on your new career, I had no idea you were going the killer clown route _ ”

She typed back, “ _ Shut up. My parents were getting really annoying with the whole ‘when are you getting a boyfriend’ routine, so now anyone within 100 feet will know I’m gay _ ”

“ _ Get any pussy yet? _ ”

“ _ Not yet _ ”

Spot had switched back to American Ninja Warrior, content to end the conversation there, when something occurred to him. He switched back to Snapchat. “ _ Wait, does this mean you’re out? _ ”

Her Bitmoji—which now had a bright red pixie cut to match her own—appeared and disappeared a few times before a reply came in. “ _ Sort of? I havent like, SAID it, but I’m being pretty blatant _ ”

“ _ Good start _ .” Spot added another message. “ _ I once got in trouble for commenting on John Cena’s abs _ ”

“ _ In fairness to you, he does have pretty impressive abs _ ”

“ _ Yeah, plus come on dad, he’s not even my type _ ”

“ _ Yeah, he’s not a drooling twink _ ”

“ _ Don’t talk about my drooling twink that way _ ”

Spot was distracted from any potential reply by a grunt from said drooling twink as he woke up. 

“Whaddayoudoin’?” Race asked blearily.

“I’m talkin’ to Anna about how cute you are,” Spot chuckled.

“Mm,” Race grunted, still half asleep, then concluded his thought a second later. “Who?”

“Anna, my lesbian lover.”

“Oh.” Another short delay, then he half sat up, pushing on Spot’s chest. “Wait what?”

“My lesbian friend from Philadelphia who I pretended to go to Junior homecoming with,” Spot clarified.

“Oh,” Race repeated, hesitating another beat before he lay back down again, though he almost immediately sat back up. “Ew, there’s something wet on you.”

“That would be your saliva, sleeping beauty,” Spot told him.

“Gross,” Race mumbled, rubbing at one of his eyes with his knuckles.

“Here,” Spot wiggled out from under him. “I’ll clean up and be right back.”

“I would make a sex joke, but I’m too sleepy,” Race replied, flopping back down onto the now vacant bed.

“About that?” Spot shook his head. What a boy.

He made a quick trip to the hall bathroom, cleaned off his chest with a damp washcloth, and returned to his room. Race, who was curled up around one of the pillows like some weird, overgrown sloth, extended an arm towards Spot, making grabby motions with his hand. Spot joined him on the bed, quickly pulling his cuddle pillow away and replacing it with his body.

Race wrapped his arms and legs around him willingly. “When you leave,” he said sleepily, “I’m gonna get one of those custom body pillows that you can get pictures printed on, and I’m gonna put, like, arms and legs on it, so I can pretend I’m cuddling you while we Skype and stuff.”

“That’s so creepy, babe.” Though it felt like a candle lit in Spot’s chest to hear Race talking about ‘when you leave’ like it was both a definite and something they intended to overcome. “Are you gonna get one of those kits to clone my dick, too?”

“It’s cute that you think I haven’t already.”

“Holy shit.”

“That’s a good idea, though. I’ll make another, just in case.”

“Okay, time for sleep.” Spot settled on his back, pulling Race into his side again.

“I’ll make a whole forest of Spot dicks,” Race cooed, nestling against Spot’s shoulder.

“I’m calling the police.”

“Nooooo!” he laughed sleepily. “Honestly, officer, I’m just as confused as you are. I have no idea how five hundred identical dicks got in my room.”

In a last ditch effort to get him to shut up, Spot started petting his hair again, and as usual, it worked like a charm. Race settled right down, and Spot tilted his head to press a featherlight kiss to the bridge of his nose. Of course, at the last second, Race looked up to intercept the kiss with his lips instead, as he always did. It was sleepy and messy and wonderful, and it made the candle in Spot’s chest burst into a bonfire.

After a moment, they broke apart, and Race set his head back down, nuzzling gently at the base of Spot’s neck. “I love you,” he mumbled.

“I love you too, dummy. Go to sleep.”

* * *

“Is...that my jersey?”

Race looked down at the shirt he’d just pulled on and smiled. “Oh, yeah. I’ve had it for awhile now.”

“Are you gonna wear that to school?” Spot asked skeptically.

“‘S ‘at a problem?”

“It says ‘Colon’ on the back.”

“Maybe I’m just really passionate about intestinal health,” Race shot back.

Spot snorted. “I bet you are.”

Race stuck his tongue out. “It’s not my fault you can’t spell your own name.”

“I didn’t make the jersey, dumbass!” Spot protested, pulling a hoodie on over his T-shirt.

“You probably wrote it down on a list for them or something!” Race argued happily, crossing to where Spot was and going about pulling his hoodie back off him.

“Race, whathefuck?” Spot groaned, voice muffled by the thick fabric that was now all up in his mouth.

“I forgot mine!” Race got the hoodie the rest of the way off and put it on himself instead.

Spot scoffed, cracking a crooked smile. “You could have just asked. Besides, I have more than one.”

“Yeah, but I wanted  _ this _ one.”

He shook his head. “Needy bitch.”

“Five love languages, babe,” Race replied, and he counted off on his fingers. “Quality time, kissin’, karaoke, making snacks, and stealing hoodies.”

“Those are surprisingly not that far off,” Spot mused.

“Really? I was just guessing.”

“Really,” he chuckled. He grabbed his backpack from the floor next to his desk. “Now come on, or we’re gonna be late. Are you driving?”

* * *

Almost as soon as they got in the car, Race pulled his vape out. “Y’know, this thing has been a real game changer.”

“Good,” Spot said. “I’m glad.”

“I still like cigarettes better, but this is great for being sneaky.” He took a drag and exhaled a plume of fake-fruity smelling vapor. “The smell doesn’t, like, get stuck on stuff.”

Spot waved the vapor out of his face, wrinkling his nose. “Jesus Christ, what scent is that?”

“Sour blue raspberry,” Race replied with another puff of—well, it couldn’t really be counted as smoke, could it? “Though I dunno how they think it’s ‘sour’ if there’s no tasting really involved.”

“Racer,  _ I _ can taste it all the way over here.” Spot rolled down his window a crack to let some of the suffocating smell out—it wasn’t  _ bad _ , just strong—but the window rolled right up again, and Spot looked over to see Race’s finger on the driver’s side control.

“You gave me this power.”

“Oh my god, are you gassing me? Has this been your evil plan all along? You played the long game, baby.”

“Surprise, bitch, I took out a secret insurance policy!”

“Remember when I called you crazy and you disagreed?”

Race’s face clouded briefly with a frown, but it was gone quickly. “I prefer ‘evil mastermind’, thank you very much.”

“Sure,” Spot conceded. “Evil mastermind it is.”

“I know my worth,” Race replied, voice heavy with false dignity.

After an excruciatingly sour blue raspberry scented car ride, they pulled into the school parking lot. Spot didn’t even wait for the car to come to a complete stop before opening the door and falling out, dramatically gasping for breath.

“Fresh air!” he wailed.

The car jolted to a stop as Race reacted to his sudden departure, and out of the corner of his eye Spot saw him wince, hard.

Spot leaned back in the car door. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Race cleared his throat, putting the car in park. “Yeah, fine. I just wasn’t expecting you to yeet yourself out the door while we were still rolling.”

Spot cringe-smiled. “Sorry.”

Race shrugged. “No biggie, no one got hurt.”

“Gonna have to try harder than that to hurt me, I assure you.” Spot reached across the center console and brushed his thumb against Race’s cheek.

Race smiled and turned his head quickly to bite at his thumb.

Spot chuckled. “That’s my boy.”

“See? That’s why I wore the jersey,” Race explained, getting out of the car and raising his voice to a shout halfway through his next sentence. “So everyone will know I’m a  _ colon boy! _ ”

“Yeah?” Spot smiled. “Get over here, Colon Boy, so I can kiss ya before we gotta get to class.”

With a grin, Race circled around the car to launch himself at Spot, very nearly knocking him over. Laughing, Spot put his hand on the back of Race’s head and kissed him firmly. Race kissed back eagerly, trailing his hands up Spot’s chest to drape his arms over his shoulders.

Spot hummed before pulling back. “You have a good day, gorgeous. I’ll seeya in bio.”

“See you in bio.”

* * *

“Hey, wanna skip bio and make out in a closet?”

Spot stared back at Race with a borderline offended look on his face. “What kind of a question is that?” He grabbed Race’s wrist and dragged him down the hall.

Race burst into laughter, happily skipping a bit to catch up. “I thought you might have an issue, since you’ve skipped class this week already.”

“Not bio.” Spot threw open the supply closet door and shoved Race roughly inside.

Race squeaked, nearly falling into one of those wheeled mop buckets with a built in water strainer, but he was delighted. It had been awhile since Spot had been rough and careless like this, and Race had missed it.

Spot slammed the door behind them. “Take my damn hoodie off.”

For a moment, Race considered ‘misunderstanding’, but he was eager to feel Spot’s hands on him, so he did as he was told. The moment the hoodie hit the floor, Spot’s hands were on either side of his neck, lips on his lips, pushing him back against the wall. Race groaned happily, twisting his fingers into the waistband of Spot’s jeans and tugging him closer. Spot planted one of his feet between Race’s, grabbed his hands, and pinned them to the wall, lacing their fingers together.

When he finally pulled back to breathe, Race giggled. “If I’d known I’d get this reaction, I’d’ve started wearing your clothes ages ago.”

“Clothes have nothing to do with it, gorgeous.”

With a grin, Race leaned forward to capture his lips again. Spot hummed and squeezed his hands tighter, and how could something so simple feel so damn affectionate?

Race tilted his head to deepen the kiss, trying to push off the wall and press closer to Spot, but Spot pushed back, keeping him firmly pinned. Race whined against his mouth, and Spot chuckled lowly. He dragged his hands down Race’s arms to settle on his hips instead, and Race dropped his arms to wrap around Spot’s neck, pulling him in closer and kissing him aggressively, hoping to spur more roughness out of him. Something about it was intoxicating—that air of ‘I want you and I want you now, and I don’t care where we are or what else is supposed to be happening’. It made Race feel valued and  _ wanted _ , and he  _ needed _ to be wanted. He had spent too much of his life— _ seven fucking years _ —unwanted, and he would rather die than go back.

Spot shoved his hands up Race’s shirt, grasping roughly at his sides, hard enough that Race wondered if he would have bruises there tomorrow. Race gasped, faltering briefly against Spot’s lips, and moved his hands to tangle in Spot’s hair.

“Hey, babe?” Spot began quietly, unfairly composed.

“Mm?” Race half-replied, desperate for him to stop talking and put his mouth back on him instead.

In the low light, Race could just make out a smirk on Spot’s lips. “I’m gonna piss off your parents.”

Spot turned Race around so he was facing the wall, pressed up against his back, and bit the back of his neck  _ hard _ . Race yelped, half from surprise and half cause it actually hurt, in a wonderful, delicious sort of way. Spot slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise, but it was too late.

“Sorry.” He kissed over the spot he’d just bitten. “That’s going to be there a while.”

Race giggled. “Oh no, what ever will I do?”

Spot took a step back, freeing Race for the moment, and Race turned around to look at him. He dragged his fingers through his hair, looking back at Race.

“What?” Race asked.

Spot smirked again. “You’re hot, and I love you.”

Race laughed. “Takes one to know one.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, nor does you not kissing me right now, but here we are,” Race shot back.

“Slut,” Spot teased, even as he reached out and pulled Race into another kiss.

Race stepped closer, dropping his arms over Spot’s shoulders, and kissing back deeply. This was definitely better than biology class.

* * *

“How do you guys feel about raccoons?”

Vince and Myron’s faces shifted into identical expressions of confusion and concern, while Hot Shot was too invested in his homework to care, and Spot braced for impact.

“Uh,” Myron said, “they’re alright, I guess?”

“It’s just that a raccoon can squeeze into holes as tight as four inches, and the human anus can stretch up to seven inches before taking damage,” Race explained. “So, theoretically, you can take almost two full raccoons up your ass.”

Hot Shot looked up from his homework, and he, Vince, and Myron all looked to Spot for direction.

Unfortunately, Spot had no idea where to go with that, either. He coughed. “Okay, babe.”

“I’m just sayin’.” Race shrugged. “It’s something to think about.”

Myron leaned across the table towards Spot and whispered, though definitely loud enough for everyone to hear, “Are you okay, man? Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

“Someday, this is gonna win one a’ you a million dollars on a game show,” Spot said without blinking.

Race held his hands out, gesturing like he was showcasing a banner. “Come on down to win big on How Many Animals Can  _ Your _ Ass Take!”

Vince snorted. “That sounds like a whole different kinda game show, man.”

“I’d be great at it.” Race grinned.

“Hey, Race,” Hot Shot piped up suddenly, “you good at math?”

Race looked over at him in mild surprise. “Uh, yeah, why?”

He turned his homework around and passed it across the table. “Number twenty-nine.”

Spot scoffed. “My boyfriend is not your personal Einstein, Hot Shot.”

Already looking at the paper, Race reached out blindly to shove Spot. “Shut up, let me be smart.”

Spot held his hands up in surrender, but leaned over Race’s shoulder to look at the problem, anyway. He could see why Hot Shot was having trouble. Spot was decent at math, better than Hot Shot, but even he was having trouble making sense of the symbols on the page.

Race chewed on his lip, lost in thought, and after a minute or two of concentration, shoved the paper back towards Hot Shot. “It’s ‘C’.”

A weird, warm feeling spread throughout Spot’s body, and it took him a moment to realize that it was pride. Race was pretty  _ and _ smart. Spot was proud of him.

“Thanks.” Hot Shot circled ‘C’. “If this is wrong, I’ll hurt you.”

Spot scoffed. “Like hell you will.”

Race snickered, settling back into his seat and shifting to tuck himself under Spot’s arm—which was a little awkward, considering the height difference, but still comfortable. Spot pulled him in and kissed his temple, and they both flipped Vince off when he pretended to gag.

“If you want,” Race spoke up, talking to Hot Shot again. “I can just do that for you.” He gestured vaguely towards the homework sheet.

Hot Shot narrowed his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Race shrugged. “Depends on what grade you want on it.”

“Any more than a ‘B’, and Mr. Hill will get suspicious.”

“Ten bucks then.”

Hot Shot shrugged. “Can you have it done by tomorrow morning?”

“For sure,” Race confirmed.

“It’s a deal, then.” Hot Shot reached across the table to shake Race’s hand.

Race shook, and accepted the paper, folding it and putting it in his bag. “Pleasure to be doin’ business with you.”

“Yeah.” Hot Shot turned to Spot. “It’s a pleasure doin’ business with your boyfriend, Spotty.”

Spot reached across the table and smacked him on the side of the head. “Thin ice.”

Hot Shot snickered, and Race huffed, as though he were insulted. “Puh-lease. I would charge  _ way _ more than ten bucks for my services. I’m a high class whore,” he insisted, as dignified as if he’d just told the boys he was the highest paid lawyer in Manhattan.

Spot rolled his eyes. “You’re the thing that’s gonna be the death of me. That’s what you are.”

“Mmm, yeah but you love it,” Race teased.

“I do not.” He totally did.

Race smirked, clearly not buying it. “That’s not what you said last night.”

“Ooh!” Myron jeered. “Get it, Spotty!”

“Thanks,” Spot replied. “I just did, in a supply closet.”

Vince whooped. “That’s my boy!”

Race laughed. “ _ My _ boy, actually,” he corrected.

Spot smiled at him. “Damn right.”


	80. Race Has PTSD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing really happens in this chapter, ngl

“I know it’s dumb that I‘m so upset about the whole thing. Petey’s his project partner; of course he’s gotta spent time with him to do the dumb project. It doesn’t mean anything, but I still don’t like it.”

Hannah nodded understandingly. “Do you think you’re more worried about Petey or about Spot in this situation? I mean, are you uncomfortable because you don’t like Petey, or because you’re maybe feeling a little insecure in your relationship?”

Race thought for a second, frowning, and huffed. “I’m always insecure in my relationships.”

“Well, I think that’s to be expected somewhat, given your life experiences,” Hannah said. “Tony, you have PTSD—”

“Hell yeah I have PTSD,” Race interrupted. “Proficient Talent for Sucking  _ Dick, _ lmao!” Yes, yes he said ‘lmao’ out loud.

Hannah sighed, but smiled indulgently. “Maybe we can talk about your use of humor as an unhealthy coping mechanism for the trauma you’ve experienced.”

“Hannah, I don’t think you understand how clever that joke was,” Race scolded.

She sighed again. “Based on the detailed accounts you’ve given me of time spent with your boyfriend, I don’t doubt that you have a proficient talent for sucking dick. However, my specialization is with  _ this _ head,” she tapped her temple with her pencil, “not the other one.”

Race giggled. “Nice.”

“Tony, you seem to have a pretty severe fear of abandonment, but nothing that I wouldn’t expect from someone who has been through what you have. One parent left you at birth, and you lost the other at a young age. You spent—what?—seven years in the foster system?”

Race shifted uncomfortably. This was, of course, quite literally what he was there for, but he still found it rather unpleasant. “Yeah, seven.”

“The system failed you, Tony.  _ People _ failed you. Five years with a wonderful family doesn’t erase  _ thirteen years _ of abandonment.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled again, “I guess I’m just sort of terrified he’s gonna...change his mind.”

“Has he given you any indication that he would? Other than the argument you told me about, which sounds like a misunderstanding.”

“I guess no, not really.”

“Well, Tony,” Hannah said, “we’ve talked  _ a lot _ about your relationship. You two have been through a lot, and still, you’re together.” She paused briefly, narrowing her eyes slightly, like she was trying to size him up. “What are your feelings towards commitment?”

He frowned a bit. “What, like getting married?”

“Potentially. Not necessarily.”

“You mean. like,  _ now? _ “

“Hey, I’m not gonna tell you what to do, but I think you’re a little young,” she chuckled. “As a concept though, commitment—is that something you want? Does it intimidate you? How do you feel?”

“I dunno...” Race replied. “I mean, I guess it’s something I want eventually—like, a long term boyfriend, or a husband, but I dunno if that’s realistic for me.”

“Why wouldn’t it be realistic for you?”

He shrugged, feeling that familiar, hopeless weight settling in the pit of his stomach. “Everyone leaves.”

Hannah hummed. “Is that reality, or the fear of abandonment talking?”

“Both? Everyone has so far.”

“What about your parents? Your friends, Jack and Albert?”

Race tried not to smile, but a bit snuck through. “Okay,  _ most _ everyone.”

“Now, you’ve been friends with Jack or Albert since kindergarten, and the other since elementary?”

“Albert’s been around since kindergarten,” Race confirmed.

“Do you know how many eighteen-year-old boys have had the same best friend since kindergarten?” Hannah smiled. “Not many.”

“I guess...”

“And you told me before that you’re close with your parents.”

“Well yeah,” he conceded.

“And the fact of the matter is that most high school relationships don’t last very long—I’m not talking about you and Spot,” she amended quickly, “I’m talking about your...what did you call them?”

“My mob of jilted ex-lovers?”

“Yes, them”

“I dunno...I feel like it’s different cause every single one of them left  _ me _ , y’know?”

“Because you wanted to be more serious than they did,” Hannah recited from a previous session.

He nodded. “Every single one of them had multiple reasons that getting serious with me was a bad idea.”

“What does Spot think? Have you ever talked about it?”

“Not really, though apparently everyone’s ‘warned him about me’.”

“Well, you’re still together.”

“It’s only been two months though...” Race definitely wouldn’t admit it to Spot, but he was so,  _ so  _ scared that he was going to suddenly decide Race was more trouble than he was worth.

“I seem to remember you two were sleeping together before that, and reluctant project partners before that,” Hannah pointed out.

“Yeah,” Race half smirked, half cringed, “I have a better track record with flings.”

“Tony,” Hannah began, a bit more seriously, “the point I’m trying to make is that a lot of people want you. Your parents  _ chose _ you. You tried to make Spot’s life miserable, and he still decided he wants you in it.”

“Pretty bad choice on his part, huh?” Race joked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe not yet.”

Hannah raised an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, I have to let you go. Maybe next week we can talk about your use of self-aggrandizement as a smokescreen to hide your low self-esteem.”

After the usual checkout process and setting up his next appointment, Race headed for the parking lot. Now that Hannah had brought it up, it occurred to Race how very much he and Spot  _ hadn’t _ talked about commitment, or what they were headed for. It was probably something they should look into, since they were graduating soon, and if Spot was going to enlist, and they were going to do the whole long distance thing, they should probably make sure they were on the same page.

* * *

“Do you want to get married?”

Spot choked on his Crunchwrap Supreme® and coughed for a few seconds before responding, “We’re in high school!?”

“Oh my God, no, I didn’t mean right now!” Race backpedalled quickly.

Spot coughed some more, then took a long drink of Dr. Pepper as an excuse to stall and let the initial panic wear off. It’s not that the idea of marrying Race someday far, far in the future was repulsive to him or anything, it was just a little...you know...horrifying. Spot loved Race, sure, but imagine having a piece of paper legally binding you to Racetrack Higgins and his endless river of nonsense. “I haven’t really thought about it,” he answered eventually.

“Like, not at all?”

He shrugged. “I guess I just assumed it’ll happen if it happens.”

“Do you  _ want _ it to happen?”

Spot hesitated. He honestly hadn’t thought about it, and this didn’t seem like the type of question he should answer lightly. “I mean...I can’t say I’m ready to commit to that just yet, but I’m...open to the possibility?”

“What about, like, kids and stuff?” Race asked.

Spot’s eyes widened.  _ This is it _ , he thought.  _ This is how he chased all the others away _ .

“Just, like, hypothetically,” Race amended. “I’m just curious.  _ I _ don’t want kids.”

Again, Spot had never thought about this. “I don’t... _ not _ want kids, but I don’t really want them, either.”

“I think I’d be a terrible dad.” Race paused for a second, frowning a bit before he continued. “I’d probably be a pretty shitty husband, too...”

“How?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, I just don’t think I’d be good at it. I’m not, like, stable enough for that sort of thing.”

Spot didn’t like that answer, though he wasn’t entirely sure what was wrong with it. “What’s the big difference between boyfriend and husband, besides a piece of paper?”

“I dunno, it seems like it’s a bigger deal, y’know? More pressure.”

“Bigger pain in the ass to break up,” Spot conceded. “But hey, if you don’t have kids, it’s not so bad.” Okay, that part came out a little bitter.

“It’s probably still pretty bad.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Well...I don’t think you’d be a terrible husband.”

Race smirked. “I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Spot smirked back, “you’d be annoying as shit. Total trophy husband. Probably get yourself murdered in a wild scandal. Not terrible, though.”

“Trophy husbands get a bad rap. It’s hard work being this pretty all the time!”

“Really? See, I wake up this hot, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Imagine if you tried,” Race teased.

Spot stole one of his nachos. “You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Oh, I’d handle it alright,” he snickered.

“Well, I’m takin’ you to prom, right?”

“Oh, are you?”

“I’m takin’ someone. Might as well be you.”

“How romantic.”

“You know me.” Spot grinned. “Anyway, you’ll see. I’ll get myself nice and pretty, and I guarantee you’ll drop dead before the night’s out.”

“We’ll see.” Race smirked. “I survived homecoming.”

“I didn’t have anyone to get pretty for, then.” Spot stole another nacho.

“You were pretty pretty, anyway.”

He hummed. “So were you.”

Race snorted. “I was a dumpster fire.”

“And just as hot,” Spot shot back, lightly flicking Race’s nose with his finger.

Race tilted his head upwards to bite at his finger, not actually trying to make contact. Spot chuckled. Cute.

Race hummed in thought. “God, that feels like forever ago.”

(Psh, what??? It was only FIFTY FUCKING CHAPTERS AGO)

Spot chuckled. “Yeah. Remember when I suggested parent-offspring conflict theory for the project and you turned out to be fucking  _ adopted? _ ”

Race snickered. “I thought you were such an asshole.”

“Because that would have been such an asshole move, if I had known!”

“You gotta admit it was one hell of a coincidence.”

“Jesus Christ.” Spot brushed his fingers through his hair. “Imagine how much easier last semester would have been if I’d suggested, like, foraging behavior or something, instead.”

“D’you think we’d still’ve ended up fucking?” Race mused.

Spot scoffed. “Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to get into your pants since elementary school.”

Race laughed. “Thank God.”

“I know. What would you do without me?”

“I’d be missing out on some of the best dick of my life, that’s for sure,” he teased.

Spot threw a chip at him. “Damn right, you would.”

Race grinned. “Speaking of which...you wanna go fuck in the Taco Bell parking lot?”

“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”

“That isn’t a ‘no’.”

“It’s a ‘no’,” Spot confirmed, “but I’ll take you back to Beth’s place, if you want.”

Race pouted, and although it was exaggerated for comedic effect, Spot could still recognize a bit of sincerity in his displeasure. “What—you’re not into sneaking around anymore?”

“Screwing in broad daylight in the Taco Bell parking lot isn’t ‘sneaking around’, baby.”

“You gotta admit it’s  _ fun _ though.”

Spot pulled his bottom lip through his teeth, considering. “We could park behind the factory where  _ someone _ spray painted ‘Spot Conlon sucks’, instead.”

Race gasped in mock surprise and outrage. “Who would do something like that!?”

“Someone who could see the future, apparently.” Spot winked. “Finish your quesarito.”


	81. Ti Amo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot puts an excessive amount of effort into Valentine’s Day.

Jack Kelly

Spot: I can’t believe I’m doing this

Spot: What should I do for Race for Valentine’s Day?

Jack Kelly: I would say you can do basically anything, since he doesn’t have a frame of reference to pit you against, but that probably makes it worse, actually.

Spot: Oh god, he’s never had a bf for Valentine’s Day?

Jack Kelly: Nope, usually spends the entirety of February single, and bitching about it.

Spot: Fuck

Spot: Does he have a favorite restaurant or a favorite candy or something?

Spot: Damnit I should know these things

Jack Kelly: lol yeah, you might wanna up your boyfriend knowledge checklist.

Jack Kelly: Anyway, he really likes hibachi, though honestly I don’t recommend taking him. We got asked to leave last time.

Spot: Plus that shit’s expensive

Jack Kelly: Whatever you do, DON’T take him to Olive Garden.

Spot: Yeah yeah fake Italian abomination and all that

Jack Kelly: There ya go

Jack Kelly: Italian in general is a good bet though.

Spot: Do you know if he likes that little one by the square?

Jack Kelly: Yeah, I think so

Spot: Okay I’ll give it a shot

Spot: Should I buy him flowers? Is that weird and cliche?

Spot: It worked on my ex but he was way more into that shit

Jack Kelly: No idea

Jack Kelly: I’d get some sort of present, but I dunno about flowers

Spot: God why couldn’t I be straight

Spot: Girls are so much easier to buy gifts for

Jack Kelly: Yeah, he probably doesn’t want any heart shaped jewelry.

Jack Kelly: Though to be fair, I don’t think any girl actually does, either.

Spot: Fuck fuck fuck idk what to do man

Jack Kelly: “I’m sure he’ll be happy with whatever you do” is a dumb cliché, but the poor kid is totally smitten, so you might have yourself a get out of jail free card.

Spot: thank god

Jack Kelly: Don’t do nothing though, he doesn’t like you THAT much

Spot: I’m not gonna do nothing, I’m gonna buy him Italian food and fuck him at the very least

Jack Kelly: I dunno man, sounds like a pretty average day in the life of one Racetrack Higgins

Spot: Shut up

* * *

Spot groaned loudly, then called towards the kitchen, “_ Beeeeeth? _”

“Yes, Sean?” she called back.

“How do I make Valentine’s Day special for Anthony?”

Chuckling, Beth appeared in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. “Gimme something to go off of. What sort of stuff does Anthony like?” She held a hand up to stop him before he even started. “You can sort the bedroom details out for yourself. I don’t need any part in that.”

Spot cringed. “_ Beth _.”

“Alright, alright,” she chuckled, crossing to sit on the unoccupied end of the couch. “Well, what are you thinking?”

“I figured I’d take him out to dinner, but like, big whoop,” Spot sighed.

She nodded. “That’s a good start, at least.”

“It just seems so basic, you know?” he lamented. “Like I didn’t put any thought into it at all, despite the fact that I _ am _.”

“Well, you gotta add details to make it special. Like, is there anything that he’s been saying he wants to do, lately?”

“Uh...not that you want to know about.”

Beth chuckled. “Well either way, it’s all in the details—something that shows you’ve been paying attention to him and what he wants and likes and all that.”

“Right, of course,” Spot sighed. Maybe he was overthinking it. Just because it was Valentine’s Day didn’t mean they had to have some kind of candlelit, white-tablecloth dinner and fancy chocolates. Race would probably be way happier with something more fun, like laser tag or vandalism.

“You’ve got time to figure it out,” Beth assured him. “Don’t worry so much.”

Spot smiled thankfully. She was right; he had one week to plan the perfect date to make Race feel as special as he was.

No pressure.

* * *

One week later.

On one hand, Race felt kind of silly. It was a date, and expecting something incredible was probably just setting himself up for disappointment. On the other hand, it _ was _ his first Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend. Though, again, expecting that to make it magical for some reason was probably just a let-down waiting to happen. Of course, Race wasn’t commonly one for reasonable levels of excitement, so he went ahead and changed his clothes for a fourth time, determined to look just the right amount of casually dressed up—like he’d put effort in, but not the two and a half hours of effort and indecision that was the reality of the situation. He ended up settling on a light blue button up with just enough buttons left undone to be the right sort of slutty and the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, even though it was still winter, cause it just looked better that way.

He grabbed his duffel and the little paper gift bag containing Spot’s present off his dresser and made it downstairs just in time to see Spot’s car pull up in front of the house. He did a dumb little excited dance—all hops and wiggling—and went to put his shoes on. He was in the middle of applying his second shoe to his foot when Spot knocked on the door. “Coming!” he called out as he quickly finished tying his shoe, and stood up to open the door. “Well, not _ yet _, but you know.”

Spot—who was currently looking _ very _ attractive in a black leather jacket, holy shit balls—rolled his eyes, smiling.

“_ Daaamn _,” Race looked him up and down slowly, grinning.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hey yourself.”

“You ready to go?”

“Hell yeah!” Race enthused, stepping out onto the porch—forgetting a coat as usual—and shutting the door behind him. Spot put an arm around his waist as they walked out to his car. “You look stupid hot,” Race told him.

“So do you.” Spot opened the passenger door for him.

Race snickered at the show of chivalry, and climbed into his seat, tossing his duffel into the back.

Spot rounded the front of the car and got in the driver’s side. “Settle in and pick some music,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition. “We’ve got a bit of a drive.”

Race looked over at him, still grinning, and quirked an eyebrow in curiosity. “Where we goin?”

“Okay,” Spot started down the road, “I know it’s not the most romantic, but I found a place in the city where they dress you up in white t-shirts and you play paintball, then you get to keep the shirts.”

A huge smile peeled across Race’s face. Fuck romance, that sounded amazing. That sounded like _ him _. And the fact that Spot thought of it and went to the effort to find it was just wonderful.

Spot smiled at him. “That good?”

“That’s _ perfect _.”

“I thought you’d like it. And they have showers and stuff, so you didn’t get all dressed up for nothing,” Spot told him. “We’ll do that, then get some dinner, then pick up the shirts on the way to the hotel.”

Race grinned even wider, if that was possible. “I feel sorta bad, making you plan everything yourself.” He didn’t actually feel bad at all, he felt great. He felt wanted and cared for and absolutely fantastic.

“I’m the top. That’s how it works,” Spot teased.

Race laughed. “Whatever you say, daddy.”

Spot scrunched up his face in displeasure, but never quite stopped smiling. “Ew.”

“Would you prefer ‘senpai’?” Race teased, sticking his tongue out. “Or like, ‘sir’, or ‘master’?”

“Anything is better than ‘daddy’.”

“Daddy it is.”

“Bitch?”

Race giggled, reaching for the dashboard to turn on the radio. “I wonder if there’s even gonna be anyone at the paintball place, since it’s Valentine’s and all,” he mused.

Spot shrugged.

“It’ll be cool either way, though,” Race continued. “Even if it’s just us and like, a few really sad single guys who are pretending they aren’t sad that they’re single, and ‘this is just like any other day of the year, cause Valentine’s Day is just a corporate scheme’.”

“Oh shit, speaking of corporate schemes...” Spot shifted around to reach into his back pocket. He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to Race. “I was going to buy you chocolate, but I decided to give you the money instead, so you can buy even _ more _ chocolate tomorrow when it goes on sale.”

Race laughed. “You’re amazing.”

“I do my best.”

“Good news though, we still have chocolate for now.” Race held up the little paper gift bag he’d set down by his feet. “You can open it later, or I can just tell you what’s in it.”

“Tell me what’s in it,” Spot said.

“Surprise, it’s chocolate.”

“Wh— Yes?” Spot laughed.

Race smiled. He loved Spot’s laugh, and he loved when it was because of him. “I got one of those heart box assortment things and a family size thing of mini M&Ms, ‘cause like, sometimes you just want to eat fish tank gravel.”

“_ You _ want to eat fish tank gravel,” Spot corrected. “I can’t say I’ve ever had that urge.”

Race pouted. “Then you can have the assortment, and I’ll keep the gravel to myself.”

“Whatever you want, gorgeous.”

* * *

The car ride wasn’t too long, maybe forty-five minutes, and it went easily enough with music and conversation. When they arrived at the paintball arena, Spot parked the car, and they got out. Race bounced on his heels, happily excited. He was usually more of a laser tag man, but something about the messiness that went along with paintball was very appealing. They weren’t the only ones there, but pretty close to it. Aside from them, there was one straight couple and a father with his two sons. The attendants provided each of them with a pair of baggy black pants, light body armor, a mask, and a white T-shirt to wear over the armor.

“This is gonna be great,” Race giggled as they headed for the changing rooms.

Spot reached over and ruffled his hair. “Don’t get too excited, now.”

Race shoved at him. “Shut up, this is cool!”

As they headed for the arena after getting dressed, it became apparent that, although technically a free-for-all, everyone would be targeting the person they came with—boyfriend versus girlfriend, father versus sons, Spot versus Race. “Just like the good old days,” Spot teased.

Race snickered. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“You’re on, pretty boy.”

They entered into the arena, which was really just a big, warehouse-like area with obstacles. After a short briefing on rules and safety, the small crowd of combatants scattered throughout the arena as a countdown began over the speaker system. Race jogged a little ways through the room, darting aimlessly about the obstacles. Not really headed anywhere in particular, just enjoying the anticipation and adrenaline. 

The countdown hit zero, and paintball-fire rang out, but Spot was nowhere to be seen. Giggling quietly, Race began to search for him, not exactly sneaking, but keeping his steps measured and careful and peeking around corners before rounding them. He was considering crawling up onto one of the little wooden platforms scattered around the room when he got smacked in the back with a paintball, and green paint splattered all over and around him. He yelped, whirling around to try and see where the shot had come from, but by the time he did, there was no one to be seen.

“Of fucking course he’s gonna be super good at paintball, stupid,” Race grumbled good naturedly, resuming his search more carefully.

There was something strangely sexy about being hunted like this, but before Race could give too much thought to this newly discovered kink, a ball of blue paint hit him in the shoulder. This time, he managed to catch a glimpse of the offending paintball gun disappearing behind a wall. Race darted to the side, aiming to cut around the opposite end of the wall, rather than directly giving chase. Unfortunately, Spot anticipated this, and he appeared around the corner with his paintball gun raised, grinning.

“Hi, baby.” He landed a shot of purple in the center of Race’s chest.

Race gasped in outrage, then opened fire. The next few seconds were paint-splattered chaos as they both unloaded their paintball guns on each other. It didn’t take long for them to run out of ammo, and as soon as his gun started to click, Race scrambled to reload. Spot ran, ducking out of sight while Race was distracted.

“Get back here!” Race shouted, darting after him, still fumbling with his gun.

He faintly heard Spot snickering and the quiet _ click _ of him also reloading his gun. Race chanced a quick glance at the clock on the wall. They had thirty minutes in the arena, and they were only down ten—plenty of time to get his revenge.

* * *

By the end of things, Spot had inarguably won. Race got him a few times, but by the state of their shirts, there was a clear victor, and it was definitely not Race. The attendants helped them carefully take off their T-shirts without ruining them, and they headed for the locker room area to clean up and change.

“I don’t know about you,” Spot began smugly, “but _ I _ had fun.”

“Yeah I bet you did,” Race shot back, smiling anyway.

Spot snickered. “You’ve got some paint on your face.”

Race rolled his eyes, and rubbed at his face with one of the wet wipes provided. 

“Oh dear God, let me help you.” Spot grabbed the wipe away from him and scrubbed at Race’s cheek.

Race snickered, but he appreciated the affectionate gesture. 

“Alright.” Spot tossed the wipe into the nearby trash can. “Are you ready to go to dinner, then?”

“Yeah,” Race confirmed, fussing aimlessly with his hair.

Spot started towards the door. “I’m taking a risk, you know, taking you to an Italian restaurant I’ve never heard of, but it got good reviews, and supposedly the owners are actually Italian.”

Race narrowed his eyes at him. “If this is a prank, and it’s Olive Garden, I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t you think I know better?”

“I certainly hope so.”

They left the paintball place, got back in Spot’s car, and drove a little farther into the city. It wasn’t late, only a little after seven, but it was already dark out, being February and all. The lights from the buildings were beautiful. Race liked being in the city. He liked the energy, and the colors, and the noise, and the weird almost claustrophobic feeling of being in among all the tall buildings.

“I wanna move back here, someday,” Spot said, looking around as they waited at a stoplight.

“You live here right now, stupid,” Race pointed out. “Or do you mean, like, get a place in the city proper?”

“Well, I was born in Brooklyn,” Spot explained.

“Oh.” Race nodded in acknowledgment, he hadn’t known that.

The light turned green, and they pulled through. Around the next corner, they came to a stop in front of a little, hole in the wall restaurant.

“Well...this should be an adventure.” Spot turned off the car and stepped out. Race climbed out as well.

Both the food and the atmosphere of little, unknown restaurants were always better than any big, popular place, even if they were terrible—something about the ambiance of it all and the experience. Plus, there was hardly anybody there.

The first thing they heard when they walked in was what sounded like a metal pan hitting the floor and a man loudly proclaiming, “_ Porca puttana! _”

Race snickered. “Uh oh.”

“You know what he said?” Spot asked quietly.

“I think he said he knows your mom.”

Spot rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, very funny.”

Another man’s voice, also thick with an Italian accent, grew louder as he shouted back, “You never do anything right, Antonio! Your mother and I should have stopped with one!” He appeared around a corner from the back, wearing a long-suffering look. He locked eyes with Race and Spot. “And how can I help you?”

“We have a reservation,” Spot said.

“Oh, yes, you’re the gay boys. Sit wherever you like; we aren’t busy.” He disappeared into the back again.

Race snorted, amused. “‘The gay boys’?”

“I guess I told him I was bringing my boyfriend for Valentine’s Day,” Spot chuckled. “Where do you want to sit?”

Race shrugged and headed for a nearby table at random.

They sat down just as the man returned with a couple of menus. “Hello, hello, I’m Giancarlo. Welcome to Giancarlo’s. No, it’s not named after me, it’s named after my father, who was _ also _ Giancarlo. Order anything but pizza. We’re not out of it, but my son is terrible at it. What can I get you to drink?”

Race pressed his lips together tightly, so as not to laugh. “Coca-Cola, please.”

“Same,” Spot said.

Giancarlo suddenly frowned. “This is a date, yes? St. Valentine’s Day? You want candles? I will bring you candles.”

Before they could confirm or deny, he was gone.

Race dissolved into giggles. “Help, I love him.”

Spot nodded. “Let’s hope the food is as good as the service is entertaining.”

“What are you gonna get?” Race asked, picking up his menu. It had two pages, attached together like a book, with a list of drinks and desserts on the back.

Spot shrugged. “Hey, you’re the Italian food expert.”

“_ I’m _ gonna get lasagna,” Race decided, before even pinpointing it on the second page, under the dinner entrees.

“I...guess I’ll get spaghetti, because I don’t know what anything else is.”

Giancarlo returned with two Cokes, a candle, and a lighter on a tray. “Here.” He handed them each their drinks, then set the candle on the table and lit it. “Now it is romantic.”

Race bit his lip, failing to hold down another giggle. “Thanks Giancarlo.”

“You’re welcome, _ biondo _. Are you ready to order?”

Race grinned. Giancarlo almost certainly didn’t know that Race knew Italian, and that made the whole thing more fun. “I’d like an order of the lasagna please,” he said, pronouncing it the American way.

Giancarlo nodded, then turned to Spot. “And for you?”

“The spaghetti, please,” Spot said, taking Race’s menu on top of his own and handing them back.

Giancarlo accepted them with another nod, and headed for the kitchen, already shouting instructions.

“He probably thinks we’re the most basic bitches,” Race snorted.

Spot raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Aren’t we?”

“Fuck off, lasagna is delicious.”

“We used to have study dates in a goddamn _ Starbucks _.”

“I feel like that’s canceled out by all the fist fights and stuff...”

“Mmhm. Talk to me again when I’m not missing _ three hoodies _.” Spot took a drink of his Coke. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Only two hoodies!” Race argued. “Your jersey doesn’t count.”

“Really? Interesting. See, a blue one went missing from my locker on Wednesday. Luckily, I bought it at Walmart as a decoy because I only have one left.”

Race gasped, trying to cover his amusement with outrage. “You bitch!”

“Shame it wasn’t you,” Spot continued casually. “Blue looks so nice on you.”

It _ was _ him, of course, but he’d already denied it, and he wasn’t about to back down. “We should tell the principal someone’s breaking into lockers and stealing deception hoodies.”

Spot nodded. “For sure.”

“I knew I didn’t recognize that hoodie...” Race grumbled, only half under his breath.

Spot laughed, and again Race smiled, glad to have been the cause of it. Spot made him so happy, and he wanted to make Spot happy too. Race fell in love at the drop of a hat, but the longer he was with Spot, the more he wondered if he ever really had been in love before.

* * *

“Oh, hang on, will you hold this for me?” Race requested, holding his hand out as Spot pulled his bag out of the backseat.

Spot offered his hand, and Race placed his in it, lacing their fingers together and smiling a dumb, self satisfied smile. Spot looked at their hands, then at Race, scoffed, and started towards the hotel.

Grinning, Race fell into step beside him. “Got a problem, Spotty?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Would you want me any other way?” he teased.

“Never.”

The hotel lobby was cheery, in a fake, cheap sort of way, though Race didn’t mind. He was just excited to be out. Something about hotels was always fun, even if it wasn’t a particularly nice one. They checked in and got their keycards for a room on the third floor.

“I love hotels,” Race said, as Spot smacked the elevator button.

Spot made a face. “Why?”

“They’re _ fun _,” replied, not sure how to properly explain it.

Spot shook his head, smiling fondly.

“You don’t think so?” Race asked as the elevator arrived with a clunk and a ding.

“Depends why you’re there and who you’re with.” Spot winked at Race as he started out into the hallway.

With a small flutter in his stomach, Race followed. It was so _ dumb _ that something simple like a wink could have such an impact, but it definitely did.

They made it to their room and dropped their bags on the floor next to their bed. Race immediately went to explore, though there wasn’t much to look at. It was a simple room with a queen size bed and a dresser on the opposite wall with a tv on top. There was an armchair and a standing lamp in the corner, with a desk and desk chair on the wall adjacent, under the window. Next to the door there was a closet, and a bathroom next to that, which was fairly simple as well, but the end of the toilet paper was folded into a little triangle, which Race always thought was funny—like they were trying to prove the cleaning crew had done more than just make the beds.

“Having fun?” Spot teased.

“Yes,” Race shot back, sticking his tongue out as he closed the bathroom door again.

Spot smiled. “Come here.”

Race smiled in return, and crossed the room towards him.

Spot wrapped his arms around Race’s waist, when he came within reach. “Happy Valentine’s Day, gorgeous. Did I do good?”

Race brought one hand up to cup his cheek, and kissed him slowly and sweetly before answering. “So good.”

“I want you to feel special.”

Race smiled again. Could Spot be any more perfect? “I do feel special, today was great.”

“Good.” Spot kissed him gently. “There’s something I wanna say, and I’m probably gonna mess it up, but just bear with me, a’right?”

“Okay...?”

“_ Ti amo molto _, Tony.”

After a second of just smiling like an idiot, Race burst into giggles.

“Oh, come on, I tried!” Spot protested.

“Holy shit, I love you,” Race laughed.

“Yeah, I love you too, that’s the point.”

“You’re amazing,” Race said, punctuating his statement with another short kiss, “and I love you.”

“Teach me how to say it right.”

_ Amazing _.

Race felt a bloom of warmth and utter adoration in his chest. “You said it right, it’s just your accent is shit.”

“Oh, sorry, lemme just—” Spot pressed his thumbs to his fingers and gestured wildly. “It’s a-me, Mario.”

Race choked, and burst into a near scream of laughter.

“Shut up—we’re in a hotel!” Spot pushed him over onto the bed, and Race tumbled onto his back, still laughing.

Spot crashed down next to him, pulled him into his arms, and squeezed him tight. Race cuddled against his chest and buried his face in his shoulder, dying down into giggles now. Spot carded his fingers through his hair and tangled their legs together.

Race tilted his head up towards Spot’s ear to say quietly. “_ Ti amo molto _, Sean.”

“_ Ti amo molto _,” Spot repeated, mimicking his accent.

Race giggled again. Fucking adorable. “_ Ti amo molto _.”

Spot gently pulled his hair, just hard enough to move his head back so he could duck down and kiss him. Race hummed appreciatively against his lips, bringing a hand up to trail his fingers lightly across his jaw. He loved it when Spot moved him, even when it was just a little bit. It made him feel wanted, _ needed _. It was demanding in just the right way.

Spot slipped a hand under the back of Race’s shirt smoothed it over his skin. “I want to take you out more,” he murmured breathily against Race’s lips. “I love showin’ you off.”

Race smiled, twisting the fingers of his free hand into the front of Spot’s shirt, and Spot leaned forward to press another kiss to his lips, then his cheek, then the hinge of his jaw. Race hummed softly, moving his other arm to loop around Spot’s waist, and tilting his head slightly to offer him better access.

Spot brushed his lips down the side of Race’s neck to his shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked. “Fuck, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want you, Spot,” Race answered, and it was the truth. “Just like this, forever, just us two.”

Spot paused for a moment, then pulled back and took Race’s face in his hands. “Tony, look at me.”

Race met his eyes.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week, or a year from now,” Spot said. “I can’t promise you forever. What I can promise you is that, right now, I’m yours, all of me, whatever you want. I _ love _ you.”

And although that wasn’t the answer Race wanted, it was still a damn good answer. “Kiss me, then.”

Spot kissed him slowly and intently, leaving one hand on his cheek and winding the other back around his waist. Race twisted both of his hands into the front of Spot’s shirt as he kissed back.

“I love you too,” he said when they broke apart for air. “Really and truly I do.”

“I know,” Spot assured him.

“Good.”


	82. Next Week’s Fiasco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race gives his boyfriend a late Valentine’s Day card.

The next week’s fiasco started later than usual; it wasn’t until Thursday, after AP Bio, when Race declared he needed to make a detour on the way to lunch.

“Where you goin?” Spot asked.

“I was so excited for our date Friday, I forgot to give my boyfriend his Valentine’s card,” Race explained, heading down the hallway.

“Excuse me?”

“Morris Delancey,” he said, like that explained anything.

Albert snickered as Spot sputtered angrily, “Wha— _ Excuse me? _”

Spot didn’t consider himself the ‘jealous type’ per se. He wasn’t possessive, just...protective. Truth be told, he’d almost snapped at Jack before for getting too cozy with Race. He did _ not _ like the idea of any other guy having what he had with Race.

“You wouldn’t know, would you?” Albert chuckled, turning to follow Race down the hallway. “The rumors died down before you got here.”

Spot eyed him suspiciously. “What rumors?”

“That they were dating.”

“He’s like, super homophobic, right?” Race called back over his shoulder. “Well, in Sophomore year, he and some of his buddies came up with a plan to have someone ask me out as a joke. Made it a whole big thing, super humiliating, whatever. So I decided I needed revenge.”

“So you started a rumor that you were dating?” Spot called back.

Race turned, walking backwards for a moment to wink and shoot double finger guns at him. Spot groaned, but followed anyway.

“The rumors died down, but I still like to remind him now and then,” Race explained, skipping for a step or two, clearly very amused by this whole thing.

Now, Spot knew who Morris Delancey was. He had a class with him, and another one with his brother. He vaguely remembered them both being bullies back in elementary, but then again, he was a bully in elementary, too. He wasn’t exactly surprised to hear that they didn’t get along with Race.

Race came to a stop in front of a locker and pulled his backpack off, reaching inside to search for something. After a moment, he pulled out a pink envelope, and as he reached to drop it through one of the slits at the top of the locker, Spot saw ‘Morris’ written on the front, with a heart on either side.

“This is ridiculous,” Spot grumbled.

“This is _ artwork _,” Race replied, at the same time as Albert chuckled, “It’s your boyfriend.”

Spot just rolled his eyes. He didn’t exactly have a leg to stand on, after all.

Race turned back to face him again. “Ready for lunch?”

“Fucking finally!” Albert turned and started in a power-walk towards the cafeteria, with Race and Spot following at a more normal pace.

Spot slid his arm around Race’s waist as they walked to the cafeteria. Race had packed his lunch, while Spot hadn’t, but Race joined Spot in the lunch line anyway. Race was just beginning a speech on how long he thought it would take hockey players to notice their puck had been switched with a burger patty from Duane High when he was interrupted by a harsh bark of, “Higgins!” from the hallway behind them. Spot and Race both turned to see—as expected—Morris Delancey and—as slightly less expected—his brother Oscar storming into the cafeteria.

Race smiled a glowing smile. “Oh hey, babe.”

Spot let out a groan that was really more of a growl, very basely displeased by the way this lunch period was going already.

“You think this is funny?” Morris snarled, holding up the card that had been deposited in his locker. From the way he was holding it, Spot could see the front: pink, with hearts, and big red letters that said, “_ You give me all kinds of BIG GAY feelings _.” (Yes, this is a real card that B saw at Target)

Race pouted. “No, I think it’s romantic.”

Morris threw the card at his feet. “Fuck you. You’re disgusting.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about your own boyfriend,” Race laughed, and Morris looked like he might explode.

Spot put a hand on Race’s shoulder and tried to gently guide him back, away from the brothers, but Morris immediately stepped into the dead space. “This is sexual harassment. I could take this to the principle,” he threatened.

Spot scoffed. Did this kid actually just pull the schoolyard equivalent of ‘my daddy will sue’? “Calm down—it’s a Valentine’s Day card.”

“To be fair,” Race interrupted, “I _ did _ draw a dick inside...”

Morris sneered. “I know.”

“I drew it with _ love _ , Morris; it’s a _ love _ dick.”

“And you’re a _ whore _ , so it’s a _ whore _ dick.”

For someone who called Race a whore with relative frequency, Spot really didn’t like hearing Morris say it. “Hey, watch it.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, what your little slut is doing?” Morris sneered at him.

“Yes, actually,” Spot admitted, “but not nearly as much as the way you’re talking about him. So he put a card in your locker. Suck it up, buttercup. He put a bird in mine.”

“He needs to learn some fucking _ manners _,” Morris snarled.

“He’s right,” Race giggled, seeming entirely unbothered. “I’ve been bad. Someone needs to teach me a lesson.”

Morris made to angrily poke Race in the chest. “I’ll teach you a fuckin’—”

Spot would take a moment later to marvel at the speed with which his fist slammed into Morris’ teeth, milliseconds before his finger made contact with Race’s shirt.

Morris reeled from the blow as Race gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth in shock.

“Why you little—!” Oscar cried in outrage, going to take a swing of his own at Spot in retaliation.

Spot shoved Race behind him instead of blocking, but it was just as well, as a nearby monitor caught Oscar’s hand. “Hey, break it up!”

“He fucking punched me!” Morris shouted, having recovered now from Spot’s strike.

Two more monitors surrounded them, and one announced sternly, “Principle’s Office. Now. The four of you.”

Spot could have sworn his heart stopped in his chest. “Hey, Tony had nothin’ to do with it.”

“That’s not what it looked like from where I was,” one of the monitors disagreed, as Race loudly complained that Morris started it.

“No, Tony used his words, he never threw a punch!” Spot went on.

The monitor didn’t seem to care; all that mattered was they were all involved, and so they were all going to be punished.

* * *

“We had a deal, Sean.”

Spot dragged his fingers through his hair, then over his face, then through his hair again, pacing back and forth in front of the couch. “He put his fuckin’ hand on Tony. What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Sean, but certainly not punch him in the teeth,” Beth replied.

“Look, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s already happened too many times, Sean! Good grades and good behavior, that was the deal. And now come to find out not only have you broken our deal, but you’ve broken it multiple times and lied to me about it!” Beth sounded somewhere in between hurt and indignant. “I let you live here rent free with basically no rules, and all you had to do was stay out of trouble, but you’ve been fighting and hiding it from me. You’ve been skipping class.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sean; I can't hold up my end of the bargain if you aren’t holding up yours.”

“What would you have me do!?” Spot asked, pretty damn indignant himself. “Just _ let _ some asshole touch my boyfriend? Hell no. I won’t—”

“And I won’t have it in my house!” Beth spoke sharply over him. “I’m sorry, Sean. You have to go home.”

He came crashing to a halt, both physically and verbally. He shook his head. “No. I can’t go home.”

“Well you can’t stay here anymore, either,” she sighed.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do!?” he asked furiously, anger taking the place of fear. “I’m supposed to graduate in three months, Beth!”

She stood up suddenly, looking like she was near tears, but her voice was solid. “Find somewhere else to stay, or go back home. I will not have that sort of anger in my house.”

Spot swallowed hard. _ Boys don’t cry. Men don’t cry _. “Beth—”

“We’ll move you out, this weekend.”

“_ Beth _—”

“I’ll let you be the one to tell your parents.”

Dread twisted around Spot’s stomach like vines, climbing up into his chest and throat until he couldn’t breathe. Beth was gone—he could hear her footsteps retreating up the stairs—but he stayed, rooted in place.

His parents were going to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who ordered the angst?


	83. Deus Ex Mr. Higgins-a

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love you guys. :)
> 
> Meanwhile, I finally updated my Tumblr, so you can yell at me over there at @waitingformy-fanfiction, now.

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Race was flat on his back in the middle of his bedroom, and had just dropped the hacky sack he’d been tossing up in the air on his face. Before he could be bothered to retrieve it from where it had rolled, he was distracted by his phone ringing—buzzing, actually. He rolled onto his stomach, resting his cheek against the floor and settling his phone on the other side of his face once he swiped to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Race hadn’t bothered to check the caller ID, but that was definitely Spot’s voice. “Sorry. I’m outside your house. We need to talk.”

“Oh.” That didn’t sound good. “...Okay.”

Race rolled again, getting to his feet this time, and headed downstairs. Nothing good ever started with ‘we need to talk’, so of course he had gotten himself well and worked up by the time he reached the door. With a deep, shaky breath, he opened it.

Spot looked up from the ground and offered him a smile that was more of a wince.

“D’—...D’you wanna come inside, or...?” Race offered weakly.

Spot exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

Race stepped back, holding the door open for him, and he stepped inside, hands in his coat pockets, looking wildly uncomfortable.

“What’s going on?” Race asked, absolutely terrified of the answer.

Spot took a deep, heavy breath. “Beth’s kicking me out.”

Race blinked twice, and then gaped. “Wait, seriously?”

“We sort of had a deal that I could live with her as long as I stayed out of trouble.”

Race sputtered. “Wh— So you throw one punch and that’s it!?”

Spot laughed bitterly. “What am I, an overpowered anime hero? No.” He sighed. “I probably could have gotten away with one, but the school told her about everything—the skippin’ classes, the fight with you last semester.”

“Oh shit...” Race mumbled.

“Yeah. Shit.”

“What are you gonna do?”

For the longest moment, Spot just stared at him, face twisted into a gut-wrenching mix of pain and anger and fear. “There’s nothing I can do. I have to go home.”

“No...” Race said quietly, instinctively reaching out to Spot, to comfort him, protect him, anything. “No, there’s gotta be something else.”

Spot willingly wrapped his arms around Race, holding him tight, like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

Race held on just as tight. “We’ll figure something out,” be promised, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what. Maybe he could talk to Beth? Convince her to let him stay?

“This was my last chance, Race,” Spot muttered tightly. “I fucked up. Mark’s gonna kill me.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Race repeated, rubbing a hand in small circles over Spot’s back.

Spot leaned his forehead against Race’s shoulder and tightened his arms around him. “Baby, if they find out about  _ you _ —” His voice cracked. “—it’s gonna get ugly.”

Race held on tighter, pressing a kiss into Spot’s hair. “They won’t find out, we’ll be fine.”

“What if they do?”

“They  _ won’t _ ,” Race repeated a little more desperately. They  _ couldn’t _ .

Spot pulled away, wiping his eyes and avoiding Race’s as he moved to sit on the couch. Race followed, sitting down next to him and reaching to take his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Spot sniffled.

“What— Why?”

He wiped his eyes again. “I’m being a pussy. I just—”

“Oh my God, stop, don’t be stupid.” Race scooter closer to put his arm around Spot’s shoulders and pulled him into his side.

Spot took a shaky breath. Then, his face crumpled. He pulled his knees into his chest, curling into a ball, and sobbed.

Race had never seen Spot cry before, and he never wanted to see it again. Seeing him scared and hurting like that, when there was nothing he could do to help, was a sort of terrible that Race wasn’t used to, and he hated it. He wanted to make it better, but he didn’t know what to do, so he just held him.

“I don’t want to go back,” Spot managed through his tears.

Race pressed a lingering kiss to the side of his head, and murmured softly, “I know… We’ll figure something out…”

“What?” Spot asked. “Please, Tony, enlighten me on your grand plan, because I—” He shook his head.

“I don’t know,” Race admitted, pretty near tears himself.

Spot squeezed his eyes closed and leaned into him, and Race held on as tight as he could. It wasn’t fair. Beth had seemed so cool, he couldn’t believe she would send him back to such horrible people for  _ any _ reason, let alone something so dumb as a little fight at school.

He frowned as it occurred to him. “Does Beth know? About your family, I mean.”

“No,” Spot said. “Only you and my ex-boyfriends know. They had to.”

“What if you tell her? She can’t send you back if—” Spot was already shaking his head. “Why?”

“Because not every family is as fucking beautiful and perfect as yours, Tony.”

“Baby, that’s my point,” Race attempted gently. “Maybe if you tell her that they’re—”

“Or maybe it’s not as abnormal as you seem to think,” Spot argued.

“I was in ten foster homes growing up, and no one ever hit me.”

Spot opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again.

“You can’t go back,” Race said, trying his best to squash the tremor in his voice. He was determined not to cry, this wasn’t about him right now, he had to be the strong one. “There’s gotta be something. Aren’t there like, youth centers, crisis housing, something like that? Or we could sneak you in here, probably get away with a week or two just saying you’re sleeping over, and after that—“

“That won’t be necessary.”

Spot jumped a mile as Mr. Higgins spoke up, appearing in the archway.

Race looked up, just as surprised as Spot was. “Dad.”

“Sorry, sir,” Spot muttered, trying again to wipe his tears away.

Mr. Higgins shook his head, coming around to sit down in the armchair. “Nothing to be sorry about, Sean. I heard a bit, but why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Spot sniffled. “Uh...my aunt kicked me out, so I have to go back home to Philadelphia.”

“But you don’t want to.”

He shook his head.

Mr. Higgins nodded tightly. “Sean, I’m not going to ask you to tell me anything you don’t want to, but am I correct that it would be...unsafe for you to move back home?”

Spot hesitated, then nodded.

Mr. Higgins nodded again. “Well then, I suppose it’s a good thing we have an extra bedroom.”

Race’s heart leapt. “Oh my God, really?”

Mr. Higgins smiled indulgently. “No, bud, we’re going to make him sleep in the garage.”

“You would really let me stay here?” Spot asked skeptically.

“Of course,” Mr. Higgins replied seriously.

“You don’t even like me.”

“I never said I didn’t like you.”

“Dad,” Race sighed, and Mr. Higgins held up a hand, shushing him, to continue.

“And whether I do or not, that doesn’t change what’s right and wrong in a situation. I’m not going to let you get hurt, no matter how I feel.”

“Thank you, sir,” Spot said quietly.

“Of course,” he said again. “We can go get your things from your Aunt’s tomorrow, if you’d like. For tonight, you can borrow pajamas and whatever else you need from Tony.” He looked to Race for confirmation, and Race nodded.

“Thank you, dad.”

“You’re welcome. Both of you. Do you need anything else, Sean?”

“No, sir,” Spot answered.

“Alright,” he stood up, “then I’ll leave you boys alone.” He headed towards the hallway, pausing to say. “And you don’t need to call me ‘sir’, Sean.” Without waiting for an answer he offered a smile, and disappeared down the hallway.

Race placed a hand gently on Spot’s shoulder.

Spot stared after Mr. Higgins, taking a deep breath. “Holy fuck.”

“Told you we’d figure it out.” Race smiled, rubbing his back lightly.

Spot leaned back on the couch and pulled Race into his arms instead. Race wrapped his arms tight around him in turn. He wasn’t sure if his father meant this to be a long term solution, but it was still a solution, and he was deeply relieved. 

* * *

Moving in with the Higginses was a strange experience, to say the least. Beth was at work, so Race helped Spot pack his things and take them back to his house. They had to make a second trip for the birdcage, and Lizzie spent the entire car ride screaming at the top of her little lungs. Then, after dinner, Race had to go to dance, leaving Spot alone with Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. He closed himself in the guest room—his room—and quietly organized his things.

This really was his last chance, by the grace of a man who didn’t even like him. Spot had to be on his absolute best behavior from here on out. He couldn’t risk it.

After a little while, there was a knock on the door.

“Uh...come in,” Spot said, figuring he couldn’t keep Mr. and Mrs. Higgins out of a room in their own home.

The door opened, and Mr. Higgins stepped inside. “Finding room for everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” Spot said, stopping barely short of ‘sir’.

Mr. Higgins nodded. “Good, good. I just thought we could have a quick chat about some house rules.”

“Right, sure.” Spot took a seat on the end of the bed.

“Same rules for you as for Tony,” Mr. Higgins explained. “You’re your own man, so there’s no curfew or anything like that; just let us know where you are, and try to be quiet if you’re coming home late. As long as you’re in school, you get a free pass, so you gotta either keep your grades up, or start paying rent. After graduation, we can talk about what comes next.”

Spot’s generic reply died in his throat as he realized the implications of this. Mr. Higgins was talking like Spot was going to live there indefinitely, on top of what was already more generosity than he had ever expected. “I’m enlisting in the military after graduation,” Spot reminded him, “but...thank you.”

Mr. Higgins nodded. “I remember. But it’s good to have options if you change your mind.”

Spot reflexively wanted to argue that he wasn’t going to change his mind, but he thought better of it.

Mr. Higgins continued. “Lastly, church. You don’t have to believe or even participate if you don’t want to, but it’s something we do as a family, and we’d like you to be there.”

Spot cringed a little, but caught himself quickly and tried to turn it into a smile. He wasn’t very successful. “Sure thing.”

Mr. Higgins nodded again. “You got any questions about anything?”

Spot blinked a couple times. Mr. Higgins has said ‘lastly’, but it hadn’t sunk in. That wasn’t a lot of rules. Hell, that was a much lower standard than he’d been held to at home in Philadelphia. “No, I think I got it.”

“Alright.” Mr. Higgins patted the doorframe twice in that awkward ‘I have nothing else to say’ sort of way, and disappeared back into the hallway.

* * *

“—and my dad just swooped in out of nowhere and said Spot could move in.”

“Wow,” Jojo said. “That’s wild.”

“Right!?” Race enthused, dropping his bag onto the locker room bench. “My dad’s basically a superhero.”

“What are you talking about?” Tommy Boy asked from his spot by the sink, where he was busy wiping blood away from his nose—he had tried to dance with his eyes closed, and it hadn’t gone well.

“Race lives with his boyfriend, now,” Jojo teased, elbowing Race in the side.

“Nooo, my boyfriend lives with  _ me _ ,” Race corrected, elbowing right back.

“Cool. Get it,” Tommy Boy deadpanned, throwing his bloody paper towel in the trash.

Finch came in and tossed his bag to the corner. “What do you guys think about Luke or Magdalene?”

“I mean if you want to subject your kid to a life of shitty Star Wars jokes, Luke is great.” Race shrugged.

“Fuck,” Finch hissed under his breath, immediately reaching for his bag again.

“That’s not a  _ bad _ thing!” Jojo argued. “People always find things to make jokes about!”

“What about Matthew? I can probably talk her into Matthew...” Finch pulled his phone out of his bag and started texting.

Jojo had started to say, “That’s nice,” when Race interrupted. “What about  _ Bartholomew? _ ”

“No,” Finch and Jojo snapped in unison.

“How about Thomas?” Tommy Boy suggested.

Race smacked at him. “Shut up, you can’t make an army of mini Tommy Boys. How about Ann, but it’s short for Neanderthal?”

“This is why we’re making Jojo the godfather,” Finch said.

Jojo gasped. “Wait, really?”

“No, it’s actually because you’re Catholic, you go to church with Kay, and you’re my best friend.”

“Oh my God!” he replied happily, as Race and Tommy Boy protested not being the best friend.

Finch rolled his eyes. “You’re all my best friends, but neither of you are Catholic or go to church with Kay.”

“I go to church!” Race argued, although he knew very well it wasn’t the same church. He probably should have gone the ‘baptized Catholic’ route, but it was too late now. He continued. “I’d be a  _ great _ godfather!”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you’d teach my child  _ lots _ of valuable skills,” Finch shot back sarcastically. “I love you, man, but I’m not quite ready to trust you with my baby’s immortal soul.”

“Hey man, everybody needs to know how to deepthroat.”

Tommy Boy snorted loudly and buckled.

Finch glared at Race. “Dude. Too far.”

“I don’t mean while they’re still a baby!”

“Well, obviously not!”

“But eventually—”

“Stop it, Race,” Jojo cut in.

Race huffed. “You guys are no fun.”

Jojo grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the locker room.

“What? I was just kidding around!” Race protested.

“Are you manic?”

He blinked. “No?”

“Because you’re talking about blowjobs in the context of Finch’s child, it’s really fucking weird, and he’s obviously super uncomfortable.”

...Okay, when he put it like that, it  _ did _ sound pretty bad.

“Seriously,” Jojo asked, “are you alright?” Of course, leave it to Jojo to mother him, even when he was being a total ass.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just being a dick,” he mumbled. He wasn’t even sure if it was a lie or not, he was always really bad at spotting his swings until he was pretty far gone.

Jojo sighed. “Okay. Just tell me if something’s up, yeah?”

Race nodded noncommittally. Now he was preoccupied with trying to figure out if he was manic or not. Though wasn’t that, by itself, a good sign? The whole ‘crazy people don’t think they’re crazy’ bit?

“Good,” Jojo said with an air of finality, and Race sighed quietly. Maybe he should talk to Hannah about figuring out warning signs.

* * *

By the time Race finally got home from dance, after what felt like ten or so hours, Spot had made a decision; he was going to have to find something to do with his evenings while Race was out, because being in the Higginses’ house without him was downright unbearable. Though, to be fair, so was National Treasure 2, to which Race was currently reciting every line. With feeling.

“Baby, no, this is the good part!” Race insisted for what must have been the fourteenth time, as Spot tried to pull his phone out.

Spot rolled his eyes, but obediently put his phone away and settled his arm back over Race’s shoulders.

“It’s the second best movie franchise there’s ever been,” Race assured him, cuddling somehow even closer to his side.

“Yeah? What’s the first?”

“Pirates of the Caribbean, stupid,” he scoffed.

“Yeah, okay,” Spot agreed idly, leaning his cheek on Race’s head and closing his eyes. Maybe, Race wouldn’t notice if he fell asleep.

After a few seconds, the movie got significantly louder. Spot groaned.

“If you didn’t wanna watch it, you coulda just said,” Race spoke loudly to be heard over the TV.

“Bullshit,” Spot shot back. “You’d have made me watch it, anyway.”

“I might not, if you’d had a better idea.”

“Tony, for the love of god!” Mr. Higgins groaned loudly in the other room.

Race scrambled to turn the volume down, giggling. Certainly, one of the downsides to Spot’s new living situation was the lack of privacy. He’d had Beth’s house to himself most of the time.

“So what did you do while I was at dance?” Race asked.

Spot shrugged. “Just finished putting my stuff away.”

“My folks weren’t weird or anything, were they?”

“Nah.” Spot chuckled, “Dude, your house rules are so easy.”

Race frowned, as if confused. “We got house rules?”

“Yeah, and they’re like...” Spot counted them off on his fingers. “Don’t disappear, don’t be a piece of shit, and go to church.”

Race nodded. “Sounds about right.”

Mr. Higgins appeared in the archway. “I’m going to bed, boys.  _ Please _ be good.”

“No hookers n’ booze, you got it.” Race nodded, smiling.

Mr. Higgins rolled his eyes fondly. “Goodnight, buddy. I love you. You’ll always be my little man,” he teased, clearly trying to be embarrassing.

Race groaned, rolling his eyes hard enough that his upper body followed. “Daaaaad.”

The funny—or perhaps sad—thing was that Spot didn’t think it was embarrassing. He was jealous of the relationship Race had with his father—both his parents, actually, but mostly his father.

“Do you wanna finish the movie, or nah?” Race asked.

Spot glanced at him. “Do you?”

He shrugged. “I’m kinda bored of it.”

“Then turn it off.”

“What do you wanna do instead?” He asked, grabbing the remote.

Spot looked around, considering. It was pretty late, but it  _ was _ a Friday night. Video games might be too loud, though, considering Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were asleep down the hall. Spot lowered his voice. “Wanna go to your room and make out?”

Race grinned. “Hell yeah.”

Spot hopped up off the couch, pulling Race with him, and started for the stairs. Race followed quickly, giggling. Spot pulled him along until they reached his room, then stopped to carefully, quietly close the door behind them. By the time he turned around, Race was already sitting on the edge of his bed.

Spot smiled as a warm, sweet feeling bubbled up in his stomach. “Gorgeous.”

Race smiled in return. “What?”

“Gorgeous,” Spot repeated on his way over.

Race’s smile widened. “No, I heard you, stupid.”

“Then what are you asking about?” Spot leaned down to not quite kiss him.

Race didn’t bother to answer, instead twisting his fingers in the front of Spot’s shirt and pulling him in to bring their lips together. Spot sighed happily and placed his hands on the sides of Race’s neck. He was so, so gone over this boy.

Race hummed and leaned back a bit, grabbing a hold of the waist of Spot’s pants with his free hand, and pulled him down onto his lap. Spot proceeded to shove him down onto his back, kissing him deeply.

“Mm!” Race hummed in muffled surprise, but kissed back eagerly.

Spot ran his hands under Race’s shirt, up his sides, and smiled against his lips.

He remembered breaking in through the window on a November night, asking Race to be his, not knowing what might become of them. Most of Spot’s relationships started strong and slowly fizzled out, but being with Race seemed to get better every day, and oh god, he was so gone.

Race wrapped his arms around Spot’s shoulders, tilting his head and nipping lightly at his bottom lip. Spot chuckled and bit back, harder. Race whined and giggled, bringing his hands to tangle in Spot’s hair. Spot couldn’t help but grin, which forced him to break the kiss, as it’s rather hard to do both at once. Goddamnit, who gave this twink the right to be so  _ fucking _ cute all the time?

Race smiled as well, though he was clearly trying to pout. “What?”

“I’m just lucky to have you,” Spot said, brushing a stray curl away from Race’s eyes.

Race snickered. “Yeah, I guess we’re even now that I’ve saved your ass, too.”

“Ah, damn, you repaid your life debt. I don’t own you, anymore.”

He successfully pouted, this time. “I mean, you could buy me back if you want, for the right price.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the right price?”

“I dunno—five bucks? A fruit roll up? I’m pretty cheap.”

“Nah, don’t sell yourself short,” Spot chuckled. “You’re a box of Fruit Gushers, at least.”

“Aww, babe, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!” Race teased.

“I benefit every day from your low standards.”

Race laughed at this, lightly smacking at Spot’s shoulder. “Shut up, don’t sell yourself short.” He pressed his lips together tightly at his last word, trying to smother his giggles.

“Oh, fuck you,” Spot laughed.

“Nooo, my parents are downstairs!”

He kissed Race again, rolling off him so they were laying side by side.

Race hummed happily, then a wide smile broke across his face. “I can’t believe we live together.”

“Try not to kill me in my sleep, okay?” Spot joked.

“That would entirely ruin the point of  _ living _ together.”

“Hey, I don’t know what goes on in that pretty little head of yours,” he said. “At least kill me while I’m awake.”

Race snickered. “Wow, I didn’t realize you were into that hardcore stuff, babe. This changes everything.”

“Oh, shut up.” Spot silenced him with another short kiss.

Race hummed happily against his lips, and when they broke apart, he shifted a bit to cuddle against Spot’s side. “I think I wanna keep you alive for a little bit longer. You’re too cute to die.” Spot tilted his head down to place a kiss in his hair, and Race sighed. “I’m glad you’re not going home.”

Spot actually laughed out loud at that.  _ You think  _ you’re _ glad _ . “You an’ me both, baby.”

“I can’t believe my dad actually invited you to stay,” Race chuckled quietly around a yawn.

“Me neither.” Spot stroked his arm with the backs of his fingers. “We should go to bed, baby. You’re tired.”

“Nooo,” Race whined sleepily. “Stay with me?” Spot began to protest, but he cut him off immediately. “Just until I fall asleep?”

Spot sighed. “Yeah, o’course.”

Race smiled and rolled over, flopping an arm across Spot’s chest. “I love you.”

Spot chuckled. “Don’t you wanna get under the covers or nothin’?

“I don’t care, I got my boy,” he replied sleepily. “‘Sides, you’re warm.”

Spot smiled down at him, not that he saw it. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t, if you keep talkin’.”

Spot rolled his eyes, but shut up all the same. He held Race, gently stroking his back and shoulders, until his body relaxed and his breathing slowed, asleep. Then, he carefully extracted himself from the bed. He wondered if there was any way to get Race under the covers without waking him, but opted in the end to retrieve an extra blanket from the linen closet Mrs. Higgins had shown him downstairs. He quietly returned to Race’s room and laid the blanket over him, then kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Love you,” before heading to the guest room to sleep.


	84. Something’s Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race worries about his impending manic episode and introduces Spot to the wonders of church.

Saturday morning, as usual, Race had therapy. They got through their usual greeting. Race told Hannah that Spot had moved in, and sort of why. It was a bit harder to lie to her than the dance boys; he almost reflexively told her that Spot was being abused at home, but managed to remember that was none of her business and dodged around it by saying Spot couldn’t move back because of how far away they lived and how awful it would be to switch schools for the remaining three months of senior year. When she asked if there was anything specific bothering him this week, he brought up the conversation from Friday night with Jojo, and how he couldn’t really tell if he was manic or not—not that that was unusual, but now it bothered him.

By the time he stopped talking, Hannah was frowning. “Are your friends giving you trouble about it?”

“Not  _ trouble _ . I think they’re just concerned.”

She nodded. “What do you think? Are you concerned?”

“I guess? I mean, last time I had a manic episode, I got stabbed and was stuck in a psych ward for two weeks.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded.

“I don’t think I’m gonna get myself stabbed again or anything, but I’m  _ terrified _ of ending up in the hospital again,” he admitted quietly.

“I know you didn’t enjoy it,” she said, “but do you think it helped you at all?”

He shook his head. “It was just awful. I guess it’s good for some people, but it wasn’t for me.” He thought about Sniper, and the other boys he’d met in The Refuge. “Do you know if there’s any way for me to find those guys? The ones I met in the psych ward, I mean.”

Hannah paused for a minute. “If you know their names, you could probably look them up just like anyone else.”

He nodded. “Good point.”

“I have to tell you, though,” she went on, “I don’t recommend it. You don’t know what kind of situations these people are in, outside of the hospital.”

He frowned a bit. “What difference does that make?”

“It may not, but we usually recommend hospital friendships stay there.”

He frowned more. “Hannah, that’s stupid.”

She chuckled. “I don’t make the rules.”

“Why, though? Why is it not recommended, I mean.”

“People don’t find themselves in The Refuge under great circumstances.” Hannah shrugged. “They don’t always make the healthiest friendships.”

“...Have you ever been in a mental hospital?” Race asked.

She raised her eyebrows. “In general, or as a patient?”

“As a patient.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t really have a point, he was just curious.

“I  _ have _ spent a lot of time in mental hospitals as a professional, though,” she told him.

“Ehh, I feel like that’s  _ super _ different.”

“I’m sure it is, but I’ve seen a lot of things.”

“I’m not trying to deny the validity of that, I’m just saying it’s different  _ seeing _ it versus, like, actually having it happen to you.”

“I think I must be confused. Do you have a question about hospitals, or were you just curious?”

“I was just curious.” Honestly he wasn’t even sure why he’d asked, or what answer he was hoping for.

“Ah.” Hannah nodded. “Well, in that case, no. I was the family at home, not the patient.”

The way she said it piqued Race’s curiosity. “Who was the patient?”

“My sister.”

“Oh shit. Is that why you became a shrink?”

“Part of it, yes,” she admitted.

He nodded. “I’m sorry you an’ your family went through that.”

She smiled sadly. “Me, too.”

“What’s the other part of it?”

“I enjoy it, and I  _ think _ I’m pretty good at it. I find it fulfilling.”

“Fair enough.”

She read back over the notes she had taken so far. “Did you want to talk more about your mania?” she asked. “You think you might be starting a manic episode?”

“Do I seem manic to you?” He meant it sincerely. It was hard for him to tell on his own.

“You seem calm and in control to me, but that could just be because you’re aware of it.”

“I guess that’s better than not, though.”

Hannah tapped her pen against her notepad, like she always did. “You had a depressive swing last fall. How have you been feeling, since then? Have you been having swings, or have you been pretty stable?”

“I mean, there’s been ups and downs, but nothing too big.”

“In the past, before I met you, how long did you usually go between swings?

“Usually a month or two.”

“So about the same.”

“Yeah.” Race cringed. “Guess it  _ is _ about time for another.”

“Well,” Hannah said, “I think it’s really good that you recognize it. Is there anything that you find helps you when you’re having episodes?”

He cringed again, knowing codependency wasn’t a good thing. “Spot helps.”

Hannah’s expression was unreadable. “How so?”

Race shrugged. “He’s something to focus on, I guess? He helps me relax and feel okay.”

“What about when he’s not around? Is there anything you can do, then?”

“You mean with a manic episode, or depressive?”

“Either one, though I suppose manic is more pressing.”

“I dunno, there’s not usually much I do, management specific. It’s never been properly dangerous, except for last time, so I always just sorta did whatever.”

Hannah nodded solemnly. “Last time was pretty intense, huh?”

He sighed. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.”

“How does Spot handle your mental health?”

“Better than I do,” Race chuckled humorlessly.

Hannah looked mildly surprised. “Really?”

“I know, right?” he replied. “He’s kind of a dick about it, but he’s still amazing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like a few weeks ago, when we were fighting about Petey and everything, and he called me crazy.” Hannah cringed, and Race nodded. “Exactly. ‘Cept also he’s...amazing. I don’t really know how to explain it. He’s just, like, accepted all the shit that’s wrong with me, like he’s okay with it—or at least it seems like he is—and he rolls with it. Takes care of me n’ stuff.”

“But calling you crazy, that’s—”

“Super shitty, I know.”

She nodded, clearly concerned. “ _ Super _ shitty.”

“And like, don’t get me wrong, I know that,” Race assured her, “but he’s also incredible. He’s not nice, but he’s nice to  _ me _ .” He want on to tell her—some of it not for the first time—about some of the ways that Spot was amazing—the Valentine’s Day he’d planned for them, how he’d comforted Race with hot cocoa and relaxed acceptance when Race came out of nowhere to tell him he was depressed, how he’d saved Race’s life, and then ditched homecoming to visit him in the hospital, and so on. It wasn’t exactly what she’d asked for and not really what therapy was ‘for’ either, but Race was happy to gush about Spot and how lucky he really was. Hannah smiled knowingly as he went on and on, and eventually he noticed the look on her face and stopped. “What?”

“You’re a bit smitten, kid.”

He blushed a bit, but grinned. “Shut up.”

“I know it when I see it.”

“He  _ is _ amazing, though,” Race insisted.

“I’ll have you take your word for it, since I’ve never met him,” Hannah chuckled. “Don’t let him call you crazy, though.”

“I already told him he’s an asshole for it,” he assured her.

“Good.”

* * *

Sunday morning, Race was more excited for church than he had been in quite a while. More accurately, he was excited to bring Spot to church. The possibility of Spot not liking it had only occurred vaguely in the back of his head somewhere, as he was much more preoccupied with the impending reality of introducing his boyfriend to Elmer Kasprzak. Whether it went well or badly, it wasn’t going to be pretty. 

“What does one wear to church?” Spot asked, coming into Race’s room on the morning.

“Something nice,” Race quoted his mother, in the process of buttoning up his own ‘nice’ shirt.

“Nice like...” Spot shook his head. “‘Grandma’s coming for Christmas’ nice, or ‘I’m going to a funeral’ nice?”

“Depends on how stuck up your grandma is,” Race teased. “Just, like, jeans and a button-up is fine.”

“Yeah, okay.” Spot headed back downstairs.

Race, already more or less finished getting dressed, followed him. “You don’t gotta be fancy or anything; it’s a super chill church. I mean,” he scoffed lightly, “they let me in, and I’m gay as hell.”

“I’m less worried about the church, more about your dad,” Spot confessed.

“I guess that’s fair, though I think he’ll be chill, too. As long as you aren’t an asshole about it, he doesn’t have much room to complain.”

“What counts as being an asshole at church, though?” he asked. “He said I don’t have to participate.”

Race shrugged. “I guess just listen to the sermon? Like, you don’t have to sing or take communion or anything if you don’t want to.”

Spot frowned. “Is communion that shit where you eat Jesus?”

Race snickered. “Yep.”

“Well, baby, I’ma get all my asshole out right now and say that’s fuckin’ weird.”

He laughed. “It totally is. Plus, our church is lame and uses grape juice instead of wine.”

“Gross.”

“Right? Can’t get drunk in the name of the Lord; what are we even here for?”

By this point, they had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Mr. Higgins sighed from his place on the couch.

Race offered him a grin. “Morning, dad.”

“Morning, Bud.”

Spot escaped quickly to his room, and Race sat down on the arm of the couch and tucked his legs up to his chest to try and balance while he waited.

After a quiet moment he spoke again. “Thanks for letting Spot stay, dad.”

Mr. Higgins glanced up, surprised. “Of course. No one deserves to be hurt, Tony.”

“I know, but still, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He patted Race’s shoulder.

* * *

As they pulled into the church parking lot, Race pulled his phone out to text Elmer. “ _ I brought you a surprise, but you gotta promise not to be a freak about it _ ”

Elmer replied immediately. “ _ No promises. I’ll meet you at your car _ .”

Offering some half baked excuse, Race suggested his parents go on in. “Me and Spot will be there in a minute,” he promised.

Spot leaned up against the car as they headed in. “What’s up, baby?”

God, how to even  _ begin _ properly preparing him for Elmer. “I’m friends with the pastor’s son, and he always bitches about never meeting any of my boyfriends.” Race shrugged. “He’s probably gonna be super obnoxious about it, so I figured it would be less of a scene outside.” He just hoped ‘obnoxious’ would be an adequate word.

Should he tell Spot he and Elmer had hooked up? It was a long time ago, and it didn’t matter, but Elmer would almost  _ certainly _ say something, and it would probably be a better idea for Race to have said something, first. Unfortunately, as he was opening his mouth to confess, Elmer Kasprzak appeared, as Elmer Kasprzak does, out of thin air, and Race’s worst fears were realized.

“Short, Race’s type,” Elmer observed, looking Spot up and down with the biggest possible grin on his face. “You must be Snack-Size Satan.”

Spot raised his eyebrows in an impassive sort of expression. “Snack-Size Satan?”

“I’m Elmer.” He extended his hand. “I fucked your boyfriend once. He said your dick is bigger than mine, but I don’t believe him, so we’re gonna have to compare.”

Race buried his face in his hands, groaning and praying the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

He wasn’t looking, but he could practically hear the smirk in Spot’s voice when he said, “I don’t think you want to do that, man.”

“You’re just gonna embarrass yourself,” Race agreed, looking up.

Elmer flipped him off.

“Spot, this is Elmer. Elmer, Spot.” Race gestured vaguely back and forth between them.

“I’ll admit,” Elmer told Spot, “your dick must be pretty magical for him to bring you to church.”

“It is, but that has nothing to do with it,” Race replied.

“Why else would he be here?”

“I dunno Elmer. Maybe ‘cause he’s interested in Jesus? Or maybe he likes me? Or maybe he wants to meet you so you can run away together?”

Elmer leaned in towards Spot and whispered, “You know you don’t have to do this, right? He’ll put out anyway.”

Race smacked at Elmer. “Shut up, he knows I’m a whore!”

“Do you smoke?” Elmer asked Spot.

“No,” Spot answered quickly.

Race looked at him in mild surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Like, never?”

“Never.”

“...On purpose!?”

Spot scoffed.

Race held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“I don’t like the smell,” Spot said, a nigh unnoticeable hint of embarrassment in his voice.

Race bit back a grin and shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Well, we’d better get in before we miss Jesus,” Elmer suggested, clapping Race on the shoulder.

“Oh yeah, hate to miss Jesus.” Race agreed, reaching out for Spot’s hand. Spot took it easily, and Race smiled as they headed for the doors.

* * *

In the entirety of his life, all eighteen years of it, Race had never seen anything quite as funny as the look on Spot’s face when Father Kasprzak said, “May the Lord be with you,” and the  _ entire congregation _ replied, “And also with you,” in unison. He managed not to laugh, though not without considerable effort.

After the service, they fell in with the crowd milling about the narthex.

“So what did you think, Sean?” Mrs. Higgins asked with a gentle smile that suggested it was okay if he didn’t like it.

Spot smiled back tightly. “It was great.”

Her smile brightened, easily deceived as all mothers are when hearing what they want to hear. “I’m glad!”

Mr. Higgins caught Race’s eye in that ‘don’t say anything’ way, and Race nodded minutely.

“You should go to youth group with Tony,” Mrs. Higgins went on. “It’s obviously catered more towards people your age. Tony, did you introduce Sean to Jesse?”

Race gasped. “Oh my god, I didn’t. I’m an idiot.” He grabbed Spot’s hand again, craning his neck to look around and try to spot Buttons through the crowded room.

“Who’s Jesse?” Spot asked warily.

“Buttons is the best,” Race answered. “He’s gay, too.”

“Who’s  _ Buttons? _ ”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Same person. He’s the youth pastor.” He dragged Spot with him as he started to wade through the mass of people, having spotted Buttons further in.

Buttons caught sight of him and smiled. “Hi, Race!”

“Buttons!” Race replied gleefully. “Look, my boyfriend!”

Buttons looked at Spot and smiled. “Hey, boyfriend! That’s great. You look terrified.”

Spot chuckled dryly. “I’ve never been to church before.”

“I’m glad you didn’t come on a baptism day.” Buttons nodded solemnly.

“Yeah,” Race agreed with a little chuckle. “Those are kinda nuts.”

Spot seemed to relax just a little—Buttons working his Buttons magic. “Well, I think I’m on the hook for every Sunday, now, so...”

“Well, welcome.” Buttons smiled, “We’re glad to have you.”

“Glad to be here,” Spot replied, sounding not at all like he meant it.

Buttons heard it too, and he chuckled. “You’re a good sport, boyfriend.”

Race laughed. “Oh my god, I’m an ass. His name is Spot.”

A nearby old lady gave him a dirty look.

“Oh my  _ gosh _ , I’m a  _ butt _ ,” he corrected himself, louder than necessary.

Spot snorted.

“Spot, Buttons, Buttons, Spot.” Race gestured between them, grinning.

Buttons extended a hand towards Spot, and a smile towards Race. “Does everyone get nicknames, or just your favorites?”

“Only my favorites,” Race teased right back.

“My name is Sean,” Spot said.

“Jesse,” Buttons replied. “Hope we didn’t scare you too bad.”

Race scoffed. “He’s dating me; I don’t think  _ anything _ can scare him.”

“Though the chanting gave me pause,” Spot muttered under his breath.

Buttons chuckled. “My husband isn’t a fan, either. ‘Too cultish for him’.”

Spot cringed into a smile. “I didn’t say  _ that _ ...”

“Don’t worry, I take no offense,” Buttons assured him with an easy smile. “Church isn’t everyone’s thing, and you don’t have to go to church to have a relationship with God.”

“...Neat.”

Race choked and coughed, biting back a laugh.

“Well,” Buttons said, grinning, “I hope you’ll consider giving youth group a try. Less culty. Or maybe more.”

Race nodded. “Definitely more culty.”

“Am I a good cult leader, Race?”

“Oh the best.” He nodded again. “We would all die for you.”

“Just don’t ask what’s in the communion juice.” Buttons winked.

* * *

After a bit more aimless conversation with Buttons, Mr. Higgins came to collect them, and they headed home. Back at the house, Race followed Spot into the guest room—his room—and sat down on the bed, crossing one of his legs under him.

“So what did you  _ really _ think of it?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“It was a lot,” Spot said, going to let Lizzie out of her cage.

Race nodded. “Yeah, I guess it can be kind of intense.”

Spot held out his hand for Lizzie, transferred her to his shoulder, then came to sit on the bed next to Race. “Do you actually believe in all that stuff?” he asked.

Race nodded. “Most of it, at least.”

Spot hummed in acknowledgement, while Lizzie nipped affectionately at his cheek.

It occurred to Race that they’d never talked about God and beliefs and all that stuff before. “Do you believe in anything?” he asked. “God wise I mean.”

“Nah,” Spot replied. “I mean, I never really thought about it at all.”

“So like agnostic, or like atheist?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Agnostic is like you don’t specifically believe, but you think there could be a god, whereas atheist is you specifically believe there is no god.”

“Ah.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess I’m not...convinced there isn’t or anything.”

Race nodded. “That’s fair.”

It didn’t really upset him or anything that Spot wasn’t a believer. He supposed it would be cool if he was—another thing for them to share—but it wasn’t really his business if he didn’t. Race believed that everyone’s relationship with God or lack thereof was exactly that—a relationship, and thusly their private concern. Sure, there was a tinge of ‘what if he Isn’t Saved?’ But Race had always had a hard time with the whole hellfire and brimstone part of it. Good people damned for eternity just cause they didn’t sing songs about Jesus once a week? That was a hard sell to be sure. That probably wasn’t how it actually worked, though. People are people, and God is God, and people actually understanding how anything worked seemed very unlikely to Race. He had faith that God made sure people ended up where they were supposed to, and that meant good people got the good ending, and bad people got the bad ending.

Before he could go too far down that line of though, Spot leaned his shoulder against Race’s, and Lizzie hopped over, tweeting happily.

Race immediately tensed, and whispered. “Oh god why?”

Spot snickered, and Lizzie began picking at Race’s hair. He held very still, worried that she might suddenly decide to bite him, as had happened before. It seemed she still held a grudge against him for the whole locker thing—or else she just knew he wasn’t Spot.

“What’s the matter?” Spot teased. “I thought she loved you.”

“Shut up,” Race grumbled, shoving him lightly.

Lizzie got a hold of one of his curls, and Spot snickered again, reaching out to move her away. “No, baby, that’s daddy’s job.”

Race smirked. “I thought you weren’t into the ‘daddy’ thing?”

“I’m  _ Lizzie’s _ daddy, freak.”

“Gross,” he giggled.

“Fuck off. You know what I mean.”

“All I know is you called me a freak, but  _ you’re _ the one that’s got a bird-daddy kink.”

“Ewww,” Spot groaned, scooping Lizzie up in his hands and taking her back, and Race was reminded all at once of his conversation with his dance friends on Friday.

He pressed his lips together tightly for a moment, frowning, then looked at Spot again. “Do you think I’m manic?”

Spot glanced over at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “Like, right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Compared to what? Last October? No.”

“No, compared to, like, normal, I guess. I’ve been pretty good for, like, a month or so now, so it’s about time for shit to go sideways again...”

“Maybe a little,” Spot said.

Race sighed. “Yay me,”

“Don’t worry about it.” Spot got up to take Lizzie back to her cage. “I’ll look out for you. I know what I’m doin’, this time.”

Race sighed again, flopping onto his back on the bed. What he’d said to Hannah was true; Spot was an asshole, but he was amazing, putting up with so much of Race’s shit and somehow still loving him anyway. Absolutely incredible.

A couple moments later, Spot laid down on his side next to him and propped his head up on his hand. “Hey.” He poked Race in the side. “What’s the matter?”

Race wiggled slightly in response to the poke. “Just thinkin’ about how crazy it is that I lucked out and somehow got you to love me.”

Spot scoffed. “Wasn’t hard.”

Race rolled his eyes. “No, I just mean, like, you deal with a lot.”

“Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.” Spot brushed his fingers through Race’s hair. “I like dealing with you.”

“Mm, I love you too,” Race hummed. Spot smiled, still gently working his fingers through the tangles in Race’s hair and Race sighed, relaxing at his touch. “Still though, I’m sorry you got stuck with me and my broken bitch brain.”

“You’re not broken,” Spot said. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Race scoffed. “I know at least four doctors that would disagree with you.”

“What, ‘cause you’re bipolar? What’s wrong with that?”

Race frowned and sat up. “Uh, everything? My brain doesn’t work right, Spot. I say all sorts of awful, crazy shit cause I can’t read the room. I nearly got myself killed cause I thought it was funny to harass some random dude in a parking lot!”

“So what?”

“Wh—” he sputtered. “So what!? So I’m broken! I don’t work right! So I have these insane swings from so manic that if I stop moving or talking for even a second I feel like I’m gonna explode, to so depressed I don’t get out of bed for weeks! Last year I lost twenty pounds in a month cause I just flat out wouldn’t eat!”

Spot tried to backpedal, “That’s not what I meant, and you—”

“Then what  _ did _ you mean?” Race snapped.

Spot sat up and looked Race in the eye. “I  _ mean _ I like you the way you are. There’s nothing wrong with bein’ bipolar, and I wouldn’t like you any better if you weren’t.”

“There’s plenty wrong with it, Spot. I’m not normal! Normal brains don’t try to kill you and disguise it as fun times or a nap!”

“I don’t want normal, Tony, I want  _ you _ .”

Race opened and closed his mouth uselessly a few times, because that was just so damn sweet, and he had no idea what to say.

Spot placed his hand on the side of Race’s neck and brushed his thumb over the side of his jaw. “Okay?”

Race exhaled, “Okay.”

Spot patted his cheek and smiled. “Lunch time?”

Race shook his head. “I don’t get how you’re so cool about all this.”

“I’d be even cooler with a grilled cheese.”

Race laughed, and stood up. “Okay, fine, lets go get food.”


	85. Fast or Furious?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch has something important to say, and Spot experiences decent parenting.

Dance Boiz

Fonch: GUYS

Fonch: GAS STATION

Fonch: MEET ME AT THE DUCKING GAD STATION RN

Jojo: What’s going on??

Tommy Boy: Is everything okay?

Race: Yeah what’s the matter?

Fonch: Just come to the gas station oh my god

* * *

When Race got to the gas station by Tommy Boy’s house, Tommy boy and Jojo were already there. “Do you guys know what’s going on!?” he asked.

They both shook their heads. “No idea,” Jojo said.

“What the fuck,” Race mumbled, glancing at his phone to see if Finch had texted again. He hadn’t.

“I hope nothing’s wrong,” Jojo said, and Race nodded in agreement.

Luckily, they didn’t have to wait long before Finch’s car came careening into the parking lot. Race cringed as he screeched into a space, and the three of them headed over.

“Hi!” Finch exclaimed, stumbling out of the car. “Hi, sorry, I just— I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

“What’s happened?” Race demanded.

Finch looked up at him in surprise. “What? Nothing! Nothing, I just couldn’t wait to tell you.”

“Tell us what?”

He grinned. “That I’m a girl dad?”

“Oh my god, congrats, man!” Race said happily as Tommy Boy crowed, “Ohh shit, we’re gonna be aunts!”

Finch reached back into his car, grabbed a new sonogram picture off the dash, and handed it to Jojo, who held it up so the others could see.  _ She _ looked a lot more like a baby now, compared to the last picture Race had seen. He could clearly see her little nose, lips, and hands.

“She’s already so cute,” Jojo enthused.

“Little baby fish nugget,” Race said by way of agreement, though this comment was brushed over as Jojo asked if Finch and Kaylie had thought more about names.

“It’s Magdalene, but with a Y,” Finch told him. “Like, M-A-G-D-A-L-Y-N, Magdalyn.”

“That’s so cute!” Jojo replied happily, and Race and Tommy Boy chattered their agreement.

“So...yeah.” Finch exhaled, still smiling, and gestured at the photo in Jojo’s hands. “Maggie Cortes.”

“ _ Maggie _ ,” Tommy Boy repeated. “I love it.”

“So she’s getting just your last name?” Jojo asked. “No hyphens or anything?”

“I think we’re gonna make Kaylie’s last name her middle name or, like, a second middle name or somethin’,” Finch said, “but Kay’s family’s all traditional and stuff, so yeah, she’s Cortes.”

“The names sound good together,” Race said.

“Hollis Cortes?” Finch asked. “Or Maggie Cortes?”

“All of it.”

“Magdalyn Hollis Cortes is a  _ beautiful _ name,” Jojo gushed.

Tommy Boy agreed, “You guys picked a good one.”

“I still think ‘Fish Nugget Cortes’ sounds good, but that’s just me,” Race teased, elbowing Finch lightly in the ribs and sticking his tongue out,

All the teasing and bullshit aside, Race really was very happy for Finch. It wasn’t the best situation—unplanned, teenage pregnancies never are—but Finch was certainly making the best of it and by all appearances rising very well to the occasion. Finch was going to be a great dad, and although Race didn’t really want kids of his own, he was actually kind of looking forward to being a crazy uncle to Maggie Cortes.

* * *

“ _ Everything okay? _ ” Spot texted Race. They had been working on homework together at the dining room table when Race had jumped up like his chair was made of hot coals, quickly explaining that a friend needed him as he darted out the door without grabbing a coat, of course. Spot was amazed the boy hadn’t gotten frostbite at all, that winter.

A minute or so passed before he got a response.

* * *

Race: No

Race: Finch won’t throw a fasf and furious gender reveal

Spot: What?

Race: It’s the best idea I’ve ever had!

Race: instead of one of those dumb ‘tutus or tanks’ themes or whatever, it’s like is the baby FAST, or is it FURIOUS

Spot: I don’t think you can see that in an ultrasound

* * *

Race didn’t reply, so Spot set his phone down and went back to his math homework. He was usually pretty good at math, but this particular concept was kicking his ass, and now he didn’t even have Race to help him. He tried a problem for the third time, and still came up with an answer that made no sense. “Fuck!” he hissed, dropping his pencil on the table.

Unfortunately, Mr. Higgins chose that exact moment to come into the kitchen. “Watch your language, please.”

Shit. Spot picked his pencil back up and put his head down. “Sorry.”

Mr. Higgins shook his head. “It’s alright. I guess I forgot to mention that one in the house rules.” He grabbed a bag of pretzels out of the cupboard and, rather than heading back for the living room, came over towards the table. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Spot tensed up as he approached. What was his game, really? They had, for the most part, avoided one another since Spot moved in, so why not now? On top of that, Spot still didn’t understand why he had let him move in, in the first place. He had no incentive—not that Spot could see, anyway. It didn’t make sense, and that made Spot wary. There was something here he wasn’t getting. There had to be. “Nothing,” he answered plainly, “just homework.”

Mr. Higgins nodded. “Stuck on a problem?”

“Yeah.”

He hummed, taking a seat at the other side of the table. “Why don’t’cha let me take a look?”

Spot frowned, thankful the resounding ‘What the  _ fuck? _ ’ in his head managed to stay there. “Uh, okay.”

Mr. Higgins reached over to turn the paper so he could see, setting the bag of pretzels down on the table as he did so. Spot watched warily as he looked the problem over. After a minute of thought, he nodded and began to go through the problem with him.

“Looking at how you did these other problems, I think you’re missing this step right here,” he explained, and sure enough, they managed to get an answer that at least looked right. Mr. Higgins smiled jokingly. “I’m not as good as Tony, but I was pretty smart when I was in school.”

“Guess we know where Tony gets it from,” Spot said, then realized that was stupid. “Or not. I mean... Fuck.” His eyes widened briefly, and he winced hard.

Mr. Higgins chuckled, but gave him a look that said he noticed the swear. “I like to think I can take  _ some _ credit for how he’s turned out.”

Spot nodded quickly. “Yes, of course.”

There was an awkward stretch of quiet for a moment, then Mr. Higgins cleared his throat, looking back at the worksheet. “Let’s try this next one?”

Spot eyed him in complete and utter bafflement. “Okay...”

Mr. Higgins stayed and helped him through the next four problems. Once they started going faster and Spot got the hang of it, Mr. Higgins got up to reclaim his pretzels and return to the living room.

“Give a shout if you get stuck again,” he instructed him. Then, in a lower, conspiratorial tone, “Though preferably not ‘fuck’.”

Spot cringed.

Mr. Higgins moved like he was going to clap him on the shoulder as he passed, but seemed to change his mind at the last minute. Spot held his breath until he was out of the room, then quickly gathered his things and headed to the guest bedroom, deciding to hide out there until Race returned.

A few minutes later, there was a quiet knock on the door. Definitely not Race, he would just fling himself bodily at the door, and hope it would open. It had happened more than once.

“Yeah?” Spot called nervously, hoping it wasn’t Mr. Higgins again. He didn’t know if he could handle much more of that tension without snapping.

The door opened and Mrs. Higgins peeked inside, smiling. “Hey, Sean.”

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Higgins.”

“Mind if I come in?”

He did, but of course, it was her house and not his. “No, that’s fine.”

She opened the door wider and stepped into the room, closing it behind her. “I just thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing.”

He shrugged. “I’m alright.”

She nodded in that ‘go on’ sort of way. “You’ve had a lot of upheaval lately.”

He shrugged again. “I’m used to it.”

She half-smiled, half-cringed sympathetically.

“Anyway...” He looked away and combed his fingers through his hair awkwardly. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Mrs. Higgins looked conflicted for a moment, then spoke. “I understand this isn’t an ideal situation, Sean, and there’s been...tension, regarding your relationship with Tony, but I want you to know that you  _ are _ welcome here.”

Spot barely managed not to scoff.

She let out a quiet breath, not quite a sigh. “I’ll leave you be, then. I just wanted to say I’m glad we could help you out of that situation.”

“What situation would that be?” he grumbled.

“Having to go back home.”

“Right.” He sighed. “Me, too.”

She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry I brought it up.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “If you ever want to talk about, well, anything, I’d be happy to listen. I’ve been told I have ‘hardcore mom energy’. I think that’s a good thing?”

Spot blinked a couple times. She was being nice. Of course, Mrs. Higgins had always been pretty nice. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, “but...okay. Thanks.”

She nodded, smiling, and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

With a blustery sigh, Spotflopped back on his bed, pulled out his phone, and texted Hot Shot.

* * *

Spot: Help, Race’s parents are trying to parent me

Hot Shot: What?

Spot: His dad helped me with my math homework???

Hot Shot: isn’t that good?

Spot: Weird

Hot Shot: I guess, yeah.

Hot Shot: How’s it going living with crazy pants, anyway?

Spot: You don’t get to call him crazy pants, asshole

Spot: Living with him is great. Living with his parents, not so much

Hot Shot: They like, super strict or something, or just weird?

Spot: Not strict at all. They’re like a caricature of the white picket fence family. I’m surprised they don’t have lawn flamingos

Hot Shot: lol yikes.

Spot: I’m super confused, man. His dad hates me. Why is he helping me with homework?

Hot Shot: I dunno man, maybe he’s trying to make nice?

Spot: Lol who tf says make nice

Hot Shot: Shut up, I’ve been watching dumb movies with my mom.

* * *

Spot chuckled. Maybe Hot Shot was right, though; maybe Mr. Higgins  _ was _ trying to ‘make nice’. It didn’t seem likely, but it wasn’t impossible.

Hot Shot texted him again.

* * *

Hot Shot: For real though, I’m really glad you aren’t going back to Philly.

Spot: Fuck, same

Spot: Oh, that’s the other thing. I’m not allowed to swear

Hot Shot: LMFAO good luck bro.


	86. None Chapter with Left Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just bros bein’ hoes, no homo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is perhaps a little intense, but nothing you can’t handle if you’ve made it this far.

The fact that Spot knew the call was coming every Wednesday evening didn’t make it easier to take. He stared at his mom’s contact lighting up the screen for a few seconds before moving to answer. Might as well get it over with. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie!” she answered cheerfully, as always.

He held in a sigh as he leaned back against his headboard. “How’s it goin’?”

“Oh, we’re alright.” It was always ‘we’. “Nothing exciting, how about you?” She said it in a tone that meant she knew ‘something exciting’ had happened, but she wanted him to say it anyway.

“Didn’t Beth tell you?” he asked flatly.

“She said you had some trouble at school,” she prompted.

“Didn’t mean that,” he said, although the two things were related. “I meant that I’m living with a friend, now.”

“Yes, she said something to that effect.”

“Well,” Spot said, “I guess that’s exciting.”

His mother sighed quietly. “You know, sweetheart, you could always come home.”

“For my last three months of high school?” Spot shook his head, even though she couldn’t see. “No way I’d catch up. I’d have to go to Summer school to finish, at least.”

“But you will be coming home for the summer?” The way she said it was barely even a question, she just assumed he would, because that was what she wanted.

He finally let out that sigh he’d been holding in. “No, I will be enlisting in the army, like I’ve said.”

“Right away?”

“Yes.”

She sighed again. “I wish you would rethink this, Sean. I don’t think it’s going to be what you think it is.”

“Oh? And what do you think I think it is?” Spot argued.

“It’s going to be hard, Sean! And dangerous! It’s not going to be some gritty, heroic thing, like the movies.”

“I know that, Mom!”

“You aren’t cut out for that life, Sean,” she insisted.

“Says who?”

“I know you! You’re my sweet boy, and I love you so much. You could come home and get a scholarship to a good school, have a good life—”

“That’s not what I want!” Spot stood up and started pacing, just to let out some of his energy.

“Wh— You don’t want a good life!?” she asked incredulously.

“Not the one you’re describing.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s not for me.”

She huffed. “You’re being selfish, Sean.”

“It’s  _ my _ life.”

“What about your family? How is that fair to us? You just running off and getting yourself killed. What about me and your father—”

“ _ Mark is not my father _ ,” Spot snapped.

She sighed sharply. “You know you remind me so much of him sometimes.” The way she said ‘him’ made it clear she wasn’t talking about Mark. “Selfish. Shortsighted. Only thinking of what you want, not what’s good for you. Not what’s good for your  _ family _ .”

Spot was at the end of his rope. He was sick and tired of being pushed around and told what to do. He was sick and tired of being cared for conditionally. “Good,” he spat. “Some fucking  _ family _ you’ve been.” He stepped out of his room and headed for the bathroom, slamming his door behind him.

She gasped on the other end of the line. “Sean! I don’t appreciate that tone. I’m trying to help you!”

“No you’re not! You’re not! You’re trying to help  _ you _ .”

“You’re my son, Sean! I only want what’s best for you! That’s what I’ve  _ always _ wanted!”

“Oh, bullshit!”

She gasped again. “Sean Matthew Conlon, I am your mother, and I will not have you speak to me that way!”

Spot closed himself in the bathroom and splashed some cold water from the sink on his face. He could feel the muscles around his throat start to tighten, and he wanted to stop that train before it started. “Why didn’t you change my last name, Mom?” he asked.

“I suppose I was just used to it,” she replied tersely.

“He lost his rights to me,” Spot said. “You divorced him and completely cut him out of my life, but you left me with his name. Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know, Sean. I just did,” she snapped.

“Mark never wanted me.”

“That’s not true. He didn’t adopt you legally, no, but—”

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Want me,” Spot clarified, voice thick with too many emotions at once.

“Of course I wanted you, Sean. Don’t be ridiculous.” The way she said it, quick and clipped, betrayed the insincerity of her words.

Spot’s vision blurred as tears welled up in his eyes. “If I’m so in your way, why won’t you just let me go?”

“You aren’t in my way,” she said, suddenly pleading. “Sean, sweetie, I love you. I just want you here, safe, at home.”

“I’m not safe at home!”

“Sean, don’t—”

“Talk about it?” he finished for her. “Tell anyone?”

“ _ Sean _ .”

“ _ What!? _ ”

“We’re trying our best,” she said tightly, and he could tell she was near tears.

Somehow, that just infuriated him more. She didn’t get to cry. If he didn’t, neither did she. “No, fuck that!” he exclaimed. “That’s not good enough.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!”

“I don’t want you to  _ say anything _ , I want you to give a shit about me! You’re my fucking mother!”

Now she  _ was _ crying. “I  _ do! _ I love you, Sean!”

“ _ That’s not good enough! _ ” He turned around quickly, lashing out at the first thing that caught his eye. He heard the glass shatter, but he didn’t realize what he had done until he caught sight of the blood streaming down his arm from his knuckles. “Fuck...” he whimpered brokenly, dropping his phone onto the counter.

“Sean?” He could still hear his mom through the phone. “Sean, what did you do?”

He swiped the screen to end the call and carefully stepped back, over the broken glass on the floor. “ _ Fuck _ .” He could hear muffled talking in the hallway, and he froze, stomach twisting into knots. This was bad. This was so, so bad.

A second later, the door opened, and Mr. Higgins stepped in. “Sean? What happ—” He froze as he saw the mirror. It was obvious what happened. There was no mistaking the spiderweb of cracks radiating from the center of the mirror, smeared with the same blood that covered Spot’s knuckles. It was obvious Spot had flipped out and punched the fucking mirror.

“I’m so sorry,” Spot said, backing into the corner to give Mr. Higgins more space. “I didn’t mean to, I swear to god.”

Mr. Higgins stepped further into the room. “Let me see—”

Spot winced and turned his cheek as Mr. Higgins reached for him, instinctively preparing for some type of rough contact. He swallowed hard as his vision began to blur again.

Mr. Higgins stopped, then spoke in a low, even tone, like he was trying to calm a spooked animal. “I’m not going to hit you Sean. Ever.”

Spot swallowed again, then slowly, shakily, extended his injured hand towards Mr. Higgins. “Sorry about your mirror,” he mumbled thickly.

“I’m not worried about the mirror, I’m worried about your hand,” Mr. Higgins replied, gently tilting Spot’s hand to examine his bloodied knuckles.

Spot squeezed his eyes closed and bit his tongue until he tasted metal, because he would have rather died than cry in front of Mr. Higgins.

“If you want to cry, Sean, you can,” Mr. Higgins said in that same, even tone. “It’s alright for you to cry.”

Spot shook his head. It had never been okay for him to cry.

“I’m not mad, Sean,” Mr. Higgins told him, “I’m concerned.”

“Why?” Spot tried you keep his voice even, but it wavered dangerously anyway. “I’m not your son, I’m just—”

“You’re in my house and under my care,” Mr. Higgins interrupted. “Whose son you are has nothing to do with it.” He released Spot’s hand, turned to the medicine cabinet over the toilet, and pulled out a small first aid kit.

Spot shut his mouth, knowing better than to argue with a man whose bathroom mirror he just broke, especially when he was also banging said man’s son.

“Why don’t you wash the blood off your hand?” Mr. Higgins suggested, gesturing to the sink. “We’ll get you cleaned up and then we can worry about the mirror.”

Spot nodded minutely and stepped carefully over the glass to get to the sink. His phone was still sitting face-up on the counter. He noticed that his mother hadn’t tried to call or text him back.

He turned the water on, and let it run over his hand, washing the blood away. The cuts weren’t bad, but the water pressure still stung a little. He was acutely aware of Mr. Higgins still being there, watching. Once he dried his hands, Mr. Higgins handed him antiseptic cream and some gauze pads. He was still intimidatingly quiet, like he was just waiting for the right moment to blow up. The worst part was that Spot thought he probably deserved it, this time. Or maybe the worst part was that he knew he owed Mr. Higgins an explanation, and he didn’t have one to give.

“I don’t get along with my stepdad,” he said as Mr. Higgins helped him secure the gauze on his hand with bandage tape. Of course, that explained nothing, but at least it was something to confess.

Mr. Higgins glanced up at him briefly. “I see. Was that him on the phone?”

“No, that was my mom.” Spot shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I guess I don’t get along that great with her, either.”

“What about your biological father? Is he in the picture?”

He shook his head.

“I see,” Mr. Higgins said again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well,” Spot smiled bitterly as tears welled up in his eyes again, and his voice cracked, “that’s what I get for being a faggot.”

“Whoa, hey.” Mr. Higgins put a hand on his shoulder. “You are not at fault for their behavior. No one deserves to be treated that way by a parent, least of all for being themselves.”

Spot wiped at his eyes. “You’re about...twelve years two late, Mr. Higgins.”

Mr. Higgins squeezed Spot’s shoulder tightly, and for a second it seemed like he was going to hug him, but thought better of it at the last second. “I’m sorry, Sean. I’m sorry you went through that.”

Spot took a shuddering breath, and a couple of tears escaped down his cheeks. “Yeah.”

“You’re safe now though,” Mr. Higgins assured him. “You’re safe here.”

Spot pressed the side of his uninjured hand against his mouth to hold in a sob—he was only halfway successful—and nodded.

“I know I’m not your father,” Mr. Higgins continued, “and I’m not trying to be, but as long as you’re in my house, you’re one of my boys, and that means I’m taking care of you.”

Spot sobbed again. “Thank you.”

After another moment of hesitation, Mr. Higgins pulled him into a hug, and Spot tensed up for a moment before he finally broke down. He could count on no hands the number of times he remembered Mark hugging him, but it had never crossed his mind that this was something he was missing.

Mr. Higgins held him securely, offering quiet assurances that everything was alright. It didn’t feel alright, though. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his hand was sore as fuck, and he was suddenly mourning the loss of a father he’d never had and realizing that he wasn’t very proud of the person he’d become without him.

Eventually, he cried it out, but he felt like shit. “I’m sorry,” he said again, because what else was there to say?

Mr. Higgins let go and gently put a hand on his shoulder. “Feel better?”

“No.”

He smiled sympathetically. “Well, it’s pizza night, and pizza makes everything better.”

Spot chuckled. “Depends on the type of pizza. Your son likes pineapple on it.”

“Frankly, Sean, I think you should be thankful for that.”

“Wh— Oh my  _ god _ .”

Mr. Higgins smirked. “Just saying.” He patted Spot’s shoulder firmly. “You don’t need to do it right now, but I’d like you to clean this up before dinner.” He gestured to the shards of glass on the floor and counter. “You aren’t in trouble, but consequences and responsibility are important.”

Spot nodded. “I will. Where do you keep your broom and stuff?”

“In the mud room, right off the garage.”

“Right. I’ll uh...” Spot gestured vaguely. “...go get that.” He stepped carefully around Mr. Higgins and started back down the hall.

He didn’t make it even four steps before Race appeared from the living room and glued himself to his side. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Hey,” Spot exhaled as the rest of the tension he didn’t realize he was carrying flowed out of his body. “Yeah, I’m okay. I sorta broke your mirror.”

“Holy shit,” Race breathed, taking Spot’s hand in his and letting them hang between them. “What happened?” Spot could practically feel the nervous energy vibrating off of him.

“My mom’s a bitch. Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Later, okay? I gotta clean up.”

“Sure.” Race nodded, still walking with him, and not letting go of his hand.

Spot offered him a little smile. “Maybe you can show me to the broom, huh?”

“Sure,” Race said again, clearly aching to be of use, make it better, whatever, and led him the few remaining feet down the hall. “It’s in the closet,” he said, gesturing towards said closet once they were in the mud room.

“Thanks.” Spot smiled at him again. He didn’t want to freak him out any more than he already had.

Race let go, but lingered in the doorway, apparently determined to play bodyguard. Spot sighed. He didn’t like Race—or anyone, for that matter, but especially Race—worrying about him, but it seemed he had little choice in the matter. Race was definitely worried, and he wasn’t even pretending he wasn’t.

Spot retrieved the broom and dustpan from the closet and headed back towards the bathroom. “Why don’t you go back to the living room? I’ll be there in a second.”

“You sure?” The ‘I could hang over your shoulder like a concerned seagull if you’d rather’ remained unsaid.

“I’m sure,” Spot assured him.

“Okay...” After another pause and a half, Race headed back into the living room.

Spot returned to the bathroom and set about cleaning up the shattered glass and the little bit of blood. His mind drifted back to the conversation with his mom, but it already felt like a strangely distant, foggy memory. He felt so much about it, he could barely feel anything at all. He took the broken glass out and threw it away in the trash can in the garage, then stopped by the bathroom to wash his hands before heading to the living room. Race bounced up off the couch as soon as he stepped out of the hallway.

“Simmer down, I’m coming,” Spot said, aiming for lighthearted and landing somewhere around catatonic.

Race sat back down and scooted into the corner of the couch, slinging one leg up onto the cushions and patting his chest to signal he wanted Spot to sit down and lean on him. Spot reluctantly obliged, and Race wrapped his arms securely around his middle.

Spot placed his hands on top of Race’s and absently played with his fingers. “M’sorry about all that.”

“It’s okay,” Race assured him, “as long as you’re alright.”

“M’fine.”

“Okay, good.” It didn’t sound like Race believed him, but he didn’t push.

Spot almost wished he would. He didn’t like being treated like he was made out of glass and poised to shatter at any moment, appropriate as the comparison was at the moment.

After a quiet moment, Race asked, “D’you wanna talk about it?”

Spot sighed. “I donno what to say.”

“Tell me what happened? Like, what did you guys talk about?”

He sighed again. “She wants me to come home.”

He could practically feel Race grimace behind him. “Ew.”

“Yeah,” Spot chuckled. “All this bullshit about goin’ to college and being safe at home and I just—...” He shook his head.

“That’s dumb,” Race agreed.

“I just don’t get her,” Spot said. “If she loves me so much, then why doesn’t she care if I’m happy?”

“It sounds like she’s got some version of you in her head that isn’t really you,” Race suggested.

Spot scoffed. “Well, that’s for sure. The version of me in her head is straight.”

Race chuckled. “I mean, you never know, you might be,” he teased.

“Yeah, right.”

“Just cause you’re sitting between a twink’s legs right now doesn’t mean you’re gay!” he continued in a ridiculous, mocking tone, then leaned forward to kiss Spot’s cheek. “No homo, bro!”

Spot snorted and laughed. There was something wildly hilarious about the words ‘no homo’ in Race’s voice.

Race wrapped his arms a little tighter around Spot’s middle and nuzzled against his neck, Spot could feel his smile against his skin. “You might be in love with me, but it’s  _ totally _ platonic, right?”

“Just bros bein’ hoes,” Spot agreed, nodding slightly but not enough to dislodge Race.

Now Race laughed, and Spot smiled, finally relaxing. He was fairly certain at this point that Race’s laugh had magical properties yet to be understood by mankind.

“I love you,” Race said, then quickly added, “No homo.”

“I love you, too,” Spot replied.

“You hungry?”

“Yep.”

“Cool, Mom’s got the pizza stuff in the kitchen.” Race had informed him earlier in the day that it was ‘make your own pizza night’.

“Cool.” Spot stood up. “Wanna make none pizza with left beef?”

Race snorted. “I have never been more attracted to you.”


	87. Won’t You Be My Gay-bor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot’s spiritual journey gets off to a great start.

The next week with the Higginses went much smoother, and before he knew it, Spot had settled into a routine. Everyone would wake up and eat breakfast around the same time, if not actually together. Mr. Higgins would head off to work shortly before Spot and Race would head to school, taking turns driving. Albert joined them one day, and another day they all piled in Albert’s Jeep. After school, they’d come home, and Spot would head straight to his room to check on Lizzie before she started screaming—when Lizzie was there, of course, which was every day, until the following Wednesday, when Spot was surprised to find her cage open and her nowhere to be found.

“Uh, Lizzie?” he said, looking around to see where she had escaped to. The door to the room had been closed, and he didn’t think there was any other way for her to get out, but he couldn’t find her anywhere in the room. “Mrs. Higgins?” he called, heading for the office where Mrs. Higgins spent her afternoons. “Hey, Mrs. Higgins, have you seen— Oh.”

Mrs. Higgins had turned in the desk chair when the door opened, and there was Lizzie, perched on her shoulder, picking happily at her hair. Mrs Higgins smiled. “Oh, I just thought I’d bring Lizzie in here for some girl time. I hope that’s okay?”

Spot snickered. “Yeah, that’s great.”

Mrs. Higgins smiled wider. “Okay, good. I don’t want you to think I went snooping in your room or anything; I’m just after Lizzie.”

“Was she being loud?”

“A little, but she quieted down once we started hanging out.”

Lizzie, never one to be called ‘quiet’, squawked loudly.

“Well, uh, cool.” Spot gave her an awkward thumbs up. “Glad she hasn’t shit on anything.” He shook his head quickly. “Crapped on anything. Pooped.”

Mrs. Higgins smiled again in acknowledgement. “She’s been a very polite young lady—haven’t you, Lizzie?”

Lizzie squawked again, and began to try to eat Mrs. Higgins’ earring.

Before he had time to respond, a wailing call of, “Spottttt!” came from upstairs, interrupting his train of thought.

Spot smiled. “His highness awaits.”

Mrs. Higgins laughed and waved him out of the room, and he headed upstairs. The door to Race’s room was open, and he could see Race laying sideways on his bed, with his legs bent so his feet were still on the floor.

“What’s up, baby?” Spot asked, stepping into the room.

“Are you coming to youth group with me?”

“Is there cannibalism there, too?”

“Nah, Jesus vore is only for big boys.” Race replied casually. “So the only man meat I’ll be eating tonight is yours.”

“At youth group?” Spot replied incredulously.

“Everyone knows the best hookups go down in the back of a church parking lot,” Race retorted, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Spot laughed. “Hell, I won’t argue.”

* * *

“Alright, brothers and sisters in Christ,” Buttons announced cheerfully, “since we have a guest here, I want to start us off with some ice breakers!”

“Aw, beans, this is gonna be good,” Race said, standing up from the middle of the couch where he had landed earlier, with Spot on one side and Elmer on the other.

“Spot, since you’re our guest, why don’t you start?” Buttons suggested. “Tell us your name, what grade you’re in, and,” he hummed in thought, “your favorite thing you’ve done so far in 2020.”

Spot blinked a couple times. “Um, I’m Sean Conlon. People call me Spot. I’m a senior at Duane, and my favorite thing I’ve done this years is, uh...” Race could practically see the ‘fuck it’ on his face. “Tony.”

Elmer shouted in pure delight. “Nice!”

Race cackled. “I’m Tony, but everyone calls me Race. I’m a senior at Duane, and same answer. Wait no, fuck, I mean shit, I’m Tony. My favorite thing I’ve done this year is having Spot do me.”

“Alright!” Buttons clapped his hands together. “I think that’s enough ice breakers for the night! Let’s get right into the discussion.”

Race giggled, dropping back into his seat and cozying back against Spot’s side before kicking his legs up over Elmer’s lap. “Welcome to youth group.”

“Tonight, I thought we might have a talk about some tough stuff,” Buttons said, “things we don’t understand, things that may be uncomfortable to think about. I want to hear from you guys, and we’ll brainstorm, try to come to a deeper understanding. What do you think?”

Race raised his hand. “Things that are uncomfortable to think about like what if our teeth were flaccid and every time we got hungry they got hard?”

“Wow, Race, that  _ is _ uncomfortable to think about. I was thinking more along the lines of ‘If God is good, why does he let good people suffer?’”

Molly, a freshman girl who was usually pretty shy, piped up, “What does it mean to be saved?”

Buttons turned towards her gratefully. “That’s a good question, Molly. Does anyone want to give an answer?”

Nathan, a junior who claimed to be straight but was lying—seriously, no straight man would wear that light blue, turtleneck sweater he had on—asked, “Like, what happens when you’re saved, or what does it take to be saved?”

“Both, either,” Buttons encouraged, and Race turned a comfortable smile towards Spot.

“Isn’t he cute?” he asked quietly, like a proud grandparent at a first grade science fair.

“Who? Buttons?”

“Yeah.”

Spot nodded. “Like if Mister Rogers had a gay son.”

Race snickered. “Exactly.”

The group talked themselves in circles about what it meant to be saved for about fifteen minutes before moving on to a brief discussion of the next topic—“If God doesn’t want us to bang hot chicks, why’d he make the chicks so hot?” “No, you know what, Elmer? Let’s do it. What do you all think?”—and finally to the age old question of why, if God is good and all-powerful, bad things happen to good people.

Now Race, like any good good Christian boy, had heard this question at least half a billion times before, so it wasn’t especially compelling or thought provoking to him. Free will is a thing, bad circumstances are made to be lessons, push through the hard times and make the right choices to get rewarded in the hereafter, maybe God forgot to set the timer on the oven and now we have global warming. He’d heard countless answers.

“I think bad things happen because God is testing us,” Bethany Moore, one of Princess Sarah Louison’s former entourage said, “like Job.”

“Don’t you think that’s kinda shitty?”

It took Race a moment to realize who it was that replied, because he never, not in a million years expected it to be Spot.

Bethany looked over at him, surprised—or maybe insulted. “God isn’t  _ shitty _ .”

“What do you think, Spot?” Buttons cut in. “We’d love to hear from you.”

Spot looked around the room, then at Race. He raised his eyebrows, like he was asking for permission. Race nodded quickly in encouragement. He was honestly excited that Spot was showing any real interest.

Spot turned back towards Buttons and sighed quietly. “I mean, I don’t know if I believe in God in the first place, so it’s not like I’ve given it any thought, but...” His eyes glazed over a little bit in that thinking way, like when someone’s working through a tough problem and it starts to make sense. “If God is so good, maybe bad things happen because they aren’t really bad. I mean, in the big picture. Like, I don’t know—vanilla extract kinda sucks, but it’s great in a cake or whatever.”

Buttons nodded. “Something good comes out of the bad.”

“Right.” Spot paused for a moment, glancing momentarily at Race. “Like, maybe something bad happens, and it sucks, but...then you move somewhere, and you meet someone and...it’s worth it.”

Oh well fucking hell, if that wasn’t just upsetting amounts of sweet.

“Well said, Spot,” Buttons said.

Spot smiled tightly, then looked back to Race. Race smiled at him as Buttons launched into a small spiel about God’s plan and everything having purpose. 

“You really think I’m worth it?” he asked quietly.

Spot paused just long enough for Race to get worried he had misinterpreted. Then, he exhaled. “Tony, you’re worth anything.”

Race considered grabbing him and kissing him till everything else faded away and he forgot all the hurt he’d ever felt, but that probably wasn’t a good look for youth group, so he settled for cuddling closer against his side and mumbling, “I love you so much it’s stupid.”

* * *

Once youth group was over and the typical chit-chatting afterwards had concluded, Race and Spot headed for the car.

“So, how’d you like your first youth group?” Race asked as they crossed the parking lot.

“Not bad,” Spot replied. “Did I do okay?”

“Are you kidding? You were great.”

He smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you were gonna, like, actually participate.”

His smile turned into a little bit of a cringe. “Yeah. Didn’t mean to call your God shitty. Not what I meant.”

“You didn’t, though? Like, not really. It was a very well thought out point.” They reached the car, and Race went straight for the back seat. “Don’t even bother getting in the front,” he said.

“Bossy,” Spot teased, but he climbed into the backseat anyway, shoving Race to the other side.

Race giggled. “Yeah, but you like it.”

Spot closed the car door and turned to Race. “Come here.”

Race obeyed happily, scooting closer and leaning in to kiss him. Spot wrapped his arms around Race’s middle and pulled him into his lap.

Race giggled. “I love it when you manhandle me.”

Spot raised an eyebrow. “You call that manhandling?”

Race snorted. “I mean, it’s rookie shit, but it counts.”

“Don’t insult me.” Spot pulled Race into another kiss.

Race laughed against his lips and kissed back, wrapping his arms loosely around Spot’s neck. He loved being together with Spot like this. The touching, the teasing, the added thrill of being in a relatively public space, but mostly just  _ him _ .  _ Spot _ . Race had always been a slut for a cheap thrill, but Spot was  _ so _ different. He was real, he had substance, and he actually loved Race. And Race loved him. More than he’d ever thought he would love anyone.

Just when Race had settled in for something sweet and slow, Spot twisted to the side, knocked Race onto his back on the seat, and pinned his hands over his head. Race’s surprised yelp quickly dissolved into giggles.

“ _ That’s _ manhandling,” Spot said with a smirk, leaning down to kiss Race’s neck.

“Oh, is it?” Race giggled, tilting his head to allow Spot easier access.

“Mmhm,” Spot hummed lowly, sending vibrations through Race’s skin. “If only we had a little more space in here, I could  _ really _ manhandle you.”

“Mm.” Race wiggled slightly under Spot, partially to get more comfortable, but mostly to press up against him. “Guess we’ll have to revisit the thought sometime when we got more room.”

“Guess so.” Spot pushed himself back up to look down at Race, lightly biting his bottom lip and he raked his eyes over Race’s body.

Race smiled languidly. “See somethin’ you like?” he teased.

Spot exhaled slowly. “Well, baby, if there is a God, I musta done something very, very right.”

Race snickered. “So you gonna do somethin’ about it, or you just gonna stare at me?”

“Depends. If you keep bein’ mouthy, I might just stare at you.”

Race pouted. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna try me?”

“I’m bein’ quiet!” Race argued.

Spot just chuckled and leaned down to kiss him again.

* * *

When Spot and Race arrived home from youth group, Albert was in the kitchen eating their food.

“What are you doing here?” Race demanded in lieu of greeting.

Albert grunted around a mouthful of leftover mashed potatoes. “Math homework.”

“Oh,” Race replied, “alright.”

The fact that Race was supposed to help him with his math homework went unspoken but assumed, as Albert started towards the stairs and Race followed.

“You coming?” Race asked Spot.

Spot shook his head, waving them off. “I already did my homework. I gotta take care of Lizzie and stuff.”

“Okay.” Race shrugged, seeming to understand that Spot wasn’t exactly wild about the prospect of spending an extended amount of time with Albert without the buffer of the school environment between them.

Spot headed to the guest room as Race and Albert headed upstairs. He let muscle memory kick in as he began his nightly routine of feeding Lizzie and changing out the newspaper liner on the bottom of her cage. It gave him time to think.

Youth group had been interesting, to say the least. Spot had never given much thought to religion or faith. It was something other people did, and it never mattered to him because it never affected him, but he was starting to wonder if there was something to it. Why would so many people— smart people like Race—put so much stock in it, otherwise?

It was more than that, though. There  _ was _ something to it, and Spot knew it, because he felt it. He had to admit it to himself. Even when he was seated smack-dab in the middle of the church sanctuary with the Higginses on Sunday morning, he felt like he was watching church from the outside looking in, like everyone else there was connected in a way that he wasn’t. At youth group, for just a moment, he felt like he was a part of it. He didn’t know what to make of it or even if he liked it, but he knew he wanted to be a part of it again.

On a whim—let’s call it morbid curiosity—he went to the office, where he knew the Higginses kept a copy of the Bible on the shelf.

As he opened the door, Mr. Higgins glanced over from the desk to see who had come in. “Hey, Sean. You need something?”

“No, not really. I, um...” Spot carefully took the Bible off the shelf. “Can I borrow this?”

Mr. Higgins looked surprised. “Of...course. What do you need it for?”

Spot shrugged. “Just curious, I guess.”

“Alright.” Mr. Higgins smiled. “Mind if I ask what sparked your curiosity?”

“Youth group, I guess?” Spot dragged his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. I thought the book might be a good place to start.”

Mr. Higgins smiled wider. “Let me know if you have any questions, or just want to talk through something.”

“Thanks.” Spot turned to head back to the guest room, but he only made it as far as the doorway before hesitating. “Mr. Higgins...?”

Mr. Higgins looked up again. “Hmm?”

“Why do you believe in God?” Spot asked, then immediately cringed. “I’m sorry, that’s a stupid question.”

“No, it’s alright.” Mr. Higgins shook his head, and spun his desk chair slightly to face Spot properly. “I believe in God because I’ve had too much proof in my life to believe otherwise.”

Spot took a seat in the chair in the corner. “Like what?”

“Well, for one, I suppose, the grand scheme of the universe. I have a hard time believing that all this,” he gestured vaguely around them, as if to indicate ‘everything’, “is some big cosmic accident. Everything placed exactly right and timed exactly right and heated exactly right for us to exist this way, right now? All by circumstance?”

“I guess,” Spot said.

Mr. Higgins seemed to sense his skepticism—it hadn’t been an exactly compelling answer—and he continued. “There’s other stuff, of course, a little closer to home and more tangible. Lots of little things that most people would chalk up to coincidence, or luck, but to me, they’re God.”

“Like what?” Spot asked again, and Mr. Higgins shrugged. 

“Lots of things. One day I couldn’t find my keys. Once I found them and finally got on the road, I passed a huge accident that had just happened—could’ve been me if I wasn’t running late. Years ago, Rachel was stuck in a really toxic job environment, I got an unexpected promotion, and we could afford for her to quit and start working part-time at the company she’s with now. And little things, too—like once, I realized I left my phone in the kitchen, and when I came in to get it, I saw the gas on the stove had been left on.”

Spot hummed thoughtfully. He’d had times like that, sure, but he’d never given them that much thought.

“For me,” Mr. Higgins said, “it’s the little daily miracles that really show He’s here, and He’s listening.”

“What about the bad stuff?”

“What do you mean?”

“At youth group,” Spot explained, “we talked about why God lets bad things happen.”

“Ah,” Mr. Higgins acknowledged. “Well, I suppose that depends on the magnitude of the bad thing. Like, some of them, I think, aren’t actually bad. It’s things we think we want or need that aren’t actually meant for us, because God has something better in mind.”

“Something good comes out of the bad,” Spot said, quoting Buttons.

Mr. Higgins nodded. “Exactly. And that good is often better than you could’ve ever expected.” He smiled in a reminiscent sort of way.

Spot smiled back. “You’re talking about Tony, right?”

Mr. Higgins chuckled. “I am, yes. He was...well...not what we planned on, but now I can’t even imagine how we would be a family without him.”

“Not sure anyone plans on Tony.”

He chuckled again. “That’s fair.”

For a moment, Spot thought that was the end of it, but then Mr. Higgins went on. “We tried for a baby for a long time, but...things kept going wrong.”

“Oh.” Spot supposed that was to be expected. Sure, some people adopted straight out of the gate, but often it was a second or even third choice.

There was obvious pain and loss in Mr. Higgins’ voice as he went on. “Eventually, after so many miscarriages, it wasn’t fair to Rachel to keep trying. It was a very hard time for both of us, but for her especially. Her faith was shaken pretty badly—I’m sure she’d be willing to talk to you about it if you’d like. It’s not my story to share.”

“No, that’s okay,” Spot said. “I get it.”

Mr. Higgins nodded. “Anyway, we thought we were being punished or denied, that God wouldn’t let us have children or didn’t want us to have children. Turns out, he wanted us to have Tony.”

Spot wondered where Race would be if the Higginses had been able to have a child of their own, biologically. Would he have ever been adopted, or would he have stayed in the system, in foster and group homes until he turned eighteen? What would have happened when he turned eighteen? Would he still be in Duane? Would he still be  _ alive? _ It was damn lucky for him that the Higginses hadn’t been able to have biological children.

That was Mr. Higgins’ point though, wasn’t it? Maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe nothing was.

“It was a hard road,” Mr. Higgins said, “and I hurt every day for the children we lost, but I’m glad it brought us where it did. Tony was meant to be ours, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I believe that,” Spot told him. “I’m not sold on God yet, but I believe  _ that _ .”

Mr. Higgins smiled. “That’s fair. If you ever have any questions, I’m happy to help as much as I can.”

“Thanks.” Spot stood up and headed for the door again.

“No problem, son.”

Spot tripped over his feet, very nearly yeeting the Bible into the hall. That would have been a great start to his spiritual journey, he was sure.

Mr. Higgins laughed. “Alright there?”

“Yeah,” Spot cleared his throat. “Seeya, Mr. Higgins.”


	88. Various Ways to Combine French Fries and a Chocolate Frosty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot and Race enjoy living together. There’s a lot of sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys are gross, but we love them.

Therapy was rather boring that weekend. There were no profound revelations, and Hannah wasn’t impressed by Race’s sudden and intense need to figure out how to conjugate ‘yeet’. On the way home, Race decided to stop at Wendy’s and pick up lunch for him and Spot. He didn’t know what Spot liked, so he just doubled his usual order. If Spot didn’t want a double bacon jalapeño cheeseburger and fries with a chocolate frosty, he could just suck a fuck. Luckily, Spot wasn’t a picky eater, and he happily accepted the aforementioned double bacon jalapeño cheeseburger, fries, and chocolate frosty. Race was admittedly a little disappointed that there would be no fucking or sucking, but that could always come later.

“So do you dip your fries in your frosty, or are you a heathen?” Race asked. They had taken their lunch upstairs to do homework in his room, and they were currently seated on the edge of his bed.

“I dip my frosty in my fries. Get on my level,” Spot replied.

Race snorted. “How does that even work?”

“Ah, fuck, I’m gonna have to figure it out now, aren’t I?” Spot took a small spoonful of Frosty and dumped it into his fries, then ate the fries and smiled victoriously.

Race snorted again, amused. “I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘dipping’, but I’ll let it slide.”

Spot pouted. “Who made you the dipping police?”

“The dipping commissioner, obviously,” Race scoffed, flicking a fry at him.

Spot caught it. “You’re not getting this back,” he said, then ate it.

“You owe me two fries, then.”

“Nope.”

“Yes you do!” Race insisted. “That’s the rules!”

“You threw it at me. Therefore, you forfeited it,” Spot argued.

“It was an attack, not a forfeit!”

“Fine. If you want two fries so bad, I will chew them up and spit them into your mouth like a mama bird.”

“You say that like you think I wouldn’t be into it,” Race teased, shimmying his shoulders.

Spot chuckled. “I’ve learned not to suggest things I wouldn’t be willing to do.”

That sounded like a threat to Race, if ever he’d heard one, and he knew he probably shouldn’t push his luck, but what was he if not a fool driven by the insatiable mad call for chaos and entertainment? “What if I get frosty in my mouth, and you get fries, and then we just aggressively French?”

Spot nodded once, “Bet,” and shoved a small handful of fries in his mouth.

Race cackled gleefully and grabbed his frosty. “This is  _ disgusting _ ,”” But of course that wasn’t going to stop him.

“Yuh dithgusding,” Spot retorted around a mouthful of potato.

Race giggled and got himself a mouthful of frosty before leaning over to kiss Spot. As predicted, it was messy. There were chocolate and masticated French fries dripping all over their chins, and then Spot laughed and spewed the mixture all over Race.

Race burst into laughter as well. “Ee _ eeewww _ !”

Spot fell back on the bed laughing and wiped his face. Race sat back down next to him and grabbed the edge of Spot’s shirt, pulling and using it to wipe the goop off his own face. Spot let him, then used it to wipe his own face before pulling it off and throwing it into Race’s overflowing laundry basket.

Race hummed appreciatively and ran a hand over Spot’s chest. “You’re so much prettier without a shirt on.”

“And you’re prettier without food all over you,” Spot said, tugging at the hem of Race’s shirt to pull it over his head.

Race lifted his arms to make it less of a struggle. “I’m pretty with  _ something _ all over me, eyyo!”

Spot nodded. “The blood of your enemies.”

Race snickered, flopping onto his side on the bed. “Sure.”

They laid like that for a moment, just enjoying each other’s company—and maybe making out a little bit—before starting their homework. Race was really enjoying Spot living with him. He knew it wasn’t exactly under the best of circumstances, but it was still  _ nice _ . They didn’t have to worry about who had to go home when, and all the quiet moments that Race used to find so lonely and boring were now filled with Spot. Even homework was better with him around. His presence was calming, and Race found it easier to focus when he knew Spot was just a few feet away. It was a protected sort of feeling, like Race could devote all his attention to his task as long as Spot was watching his back, because then there was nothing to worry about.

“I love that you’re here,” Race said after a few quiet minutes.

“Here as in your room?” Spot asked.

“No, like, living here.”

“Ah.” Spot nodded, and they lapsed back into silence. It was comfortable though. Race didn’t feel like he  _ had _ to say anything, for once in his life. He slipped into a sort of homework coma, losing track of time and space, idly appreciating the calm as he worked through problems and essays.

Then, he heard the sound of a piece of paper tearing, and Spot slapped something down onto the desk in front of him. Race glanced up from his textbook and saw one of the ‘free cuddles’ coupons from Christmas.

He laughed and looked over at Spot. “Seriously?”

“You gave me the coupons, Race.”

He rolled his eyes and chuckled, putting his book down on the desk and getting up to go climb back on the bed. Spot laid down on his back and held out his arms for Race.

Race rolled closer, cuddling against him. “Hi.”

“Mm, hey.” Spot kissed his forehead gently.

Race hummed contentedly and shifted to get more comfortable, slinging a leg up over Spot’s hip. Spot held him securely, with just the perfect amount of pressure, and Race sighed lightly. “I love you.”

“Who doesn’t?” Spot mumbled.

Race scoffed. “Okay, cocky.”

Spot kissed his forehead again, slower this time.

“Mm, you sleepy?” Race asked.

Spot only grunted in response. Race chuckled and settled more comfortably in his arms. He didn’t mind, Saturday afternoons were made for naps, and sleepy Spot was ridiculously cute.

* * *

Spot hadn’t intended to doze off in Race’s bed, but he sure as hell couldn’t complain when he woke up to a warm, darkened room, the smell of dinner cooking downstairs, and Race gently running his fingers over Spot’s arm and singing quietly in Italian. Spot immediately let his eyes fall closed again. It seemed a little deceptive to pretend to be asleep, but fuck it, he wasn’t ready for the moment to be over.

“ _ Ninna nanna, ninna oh. Questo bimbo a chi lo dò? _ ” Race sang softly, tracing mindless patterns across Spot’s arm. “ _ Se lo dò alla Befana, se lo tiene una settimana _ ...” He continued, but the song was over quickly, and after another line or two, he was just quietly humming.

“What’s that mean?” Spot asked.

“It’s an old lullaby my dad used to sing to me,” Race replied. “Something about deciding not to give your baby to monsters.”

Spot sputtered into a laugh.

“Shut up, it’s the only one I know,” Race complained, but Spot could hear him smiling.

“Mm, it’s nice,” he assured him.

“I probably didn’t sing it right,” Race admitted sheepishly.

“I wouldn’t know.” Spot reached up and stroked his hair, smiling. Race could be so incredibly sweet, when he wanted to be.

“Yeah...I wouldn’t either,” he mumbled, suddenly sad.

Spot’s smile fell, and he sat up. “Hey...”

Race sat up with him. “Sorry, I’ve just been thinking about my dad a lot lately.”

“Don’t be sorry about that.” Spot rubbed his back. He knew he couldn’t fix this one.

“Do you wanna...come with me next week? I always go visit on the anniversary of the crash...”

“Oh.” He hadn’t been expecting that at all. No wonder Race was thinking about his dad so much around the anniversary of the crash, but that seemed like a very private thing, and Spot wasn’t sure if he should intrude. “Are you sure? You want me to come?”

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Race said quickly. “I won’t be upset or anything.”

“No, I’m happy to come,” Spot told him, “but also I get it if you want to be alone.”

Race hesitated long enough that Spot thought he’d changed his mind. “Is it super weird if I say I want to introduce you?”

“Oh,” Spot said again. “No, that’s...that’s not weird.” Super intimidating for some reason, but not weird.

Race narrowed his eyes. “Are you just being nice cause my dad’s dead?”

“I’m being nice to you because I love you  _ and _ your dad’s dead.”

“Would you still love me if my dad wasn’t dead?”

“What? Of course? Baby, that don’t make any sense.”

“I dunno; a lot of stuff would be really different if my dad wasn’t dead...”

Now, Spot prided himself on being a damn good boyfriend, always ready to help his boys with whatever they needed, but he just wasn’t sure how to convince Race he would still love him if his dad wasn’t dead. That’s not the kind of relationship advice you can find on Reddit.

“Forget it, I’m being dumb,” Race said.

“Don’t worry about it.” Spot placed his hand on Race’s cheek and kissed the other. “What day do we go?”

“Does Thursday work?” He said it like it was a thing that could be rescheduled or planned and not in fact the anniversary of the car crash that had killed his father and very nearly killed him as well.

“Yeah, of course,” Spot said.

“Cool.” Race smiled. “I’m glad you want to come.”

“Do you introduce all your boyfriends to your dad, or am I special?” Spot asked in a lame attempt at humor.

“Uh, you’d be the first, yeah.”

Good. No pressure.

* * *

Waking up in the middle of the night was not uncommon for Race. Usually, if he didn’t let himself get distracted by his phone or any other number of things, he could just roll over and go back to sleep, but poop that night, he immediately felt like something was wrong. For one, he wasn’t in his room. The window was in the wrong spot, and so was his bed and all his furniture, and it was the  _ wrong _ bed—slightly elevated, much too  stiff, with crinkly sheets and a sour smelling blanket—a hospital bed. Race sat up sharply, and realized properly, with mounting horror, that he was in a hospital room. Had something happened? Had he gotten hurt? He didn’t remember, and he didn’t  _ feel _ like he was hurt, except for a dull, pinching pain in the crook of his arm. He looked down and saw an IV connected to the inside of his elbow, slowly pushing a thick, dark fluid into him. He shuddered and looked away.

He wanted to ask what had happened, and why he was there, but he couldn’t find a call button for the nurse anywhere, so—like any reasonable protagonist—he pulled the IV out of his arm, got up, and went out into the hall. At least he could still walk. Whatever had happened, it couldn’t have been that bad.

The hallway outside his room was empty. All the lights were on, and he could hear the muted sound of beeping from various unseen monitors in the other rooms, but there wasn’t anyone there. As every corner he turned revealed another stretch of empty hallway, he became more and more frantic. Where was everyone? Where were the nurses? The doctors? The other patients? Where was his family? Why was he there? He had to find out what had happened. He had to find someone,  _ anyone _ . But he was alone.

* * *

Race woke with a ragged gasp, the sudden sensation of falling—as he had tossed and turned his way off the edge of his bed—finally jerking him out of his nightmare. It took a disorienting minute for him to register that he was in his room, in a tangle of sheets on the floor by his bed, and he sat up, shaking like a leaf and breathing quickly. He looked around, making sure that everything was where it should be, and slowly got up. He thought about getting back in bed, but the room was too empty. He grabbed the comforter off his bed, wrapping it around his shoulders like a protective cocoon, and went downstairs. He had to check and make sure he wasn’t alone.

First he went to his parents room, opening the door quietly to peek inside. They were there, both in bed and asleep, just as they should be, and Race let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It was okay. He was home, and he was safe, and his family was here.

Carefully, quietly, he closed the door, and padded back down the hall to Spot’s room. He opened Spot’s door a little less slowly, half hoping the ever creaky guest bedroom door would wake him up.

Sure enough, Spot rolled over and looked up, blinking blearily. “Wha— Baby?”

“Hey,” Race said, his voice coming out smaller and shakier than he’d expected.

“Whassamatter?”

Race slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. He took a step further and stopped halfway—the door had caught the end of his comforter, and he had to pause to right the situation. “I’m kinda freaked out,” he said quietly.

“Why? What’s the matter?” Spot asked again, a little clearer this time. He rubbed his eyes and reached out towards Race.

Race moved towards him like he was pulled by a magnet and climbed onto the bed. “I had a nightmare,” he admitted. It sounded kind of stupid once he’d said it.

“Oh.” Spot wrapped his arms around him in an easy, thoughtless sort of way. “What about?”

“The hospital,” he answered, leaning gratefully into Spot’s embrace. “I woke up—or I thought I did—and I was in a hospital room, and there was no one else there. Like, no one else in the whole hospital. It was totally empty, and I was alone, and I didn’t know what had happened.”

“S’okay. I’m here,” Spot murmured into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Race said, though he wasn’t sure what he was sorry for. He curled up a little tighter. He was still shaking a bit.

Spot hummed sleepily, rubbing Race’s back.

Race felt considerably better now that he was downstairs and had confirmed that everyone was where they should be. He took a slow, calming breath and leaned a little heavier against Spot. “Can I stay with you for the rest of the night?”

“O’course you can, baby. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Race said, moving to lay down. Nightmares always left him exhausted, but the sort of exhausted where you’re still on high alert, and you can’t calm down and rest.

Spot hugged Race against his chest, with one arm around his waist and the other resting on the back of his neck. “Your parents are gonna think we fucked, in the morning.”

“Mm-mm,” Race disagreed, cuddling as close as he could. “They know I have nightmares.”

Spot hummed in acknowledgement and tilted his head down slightly. Race could feel his breath lightly against his forehead. Somehow, that was comforting—just a steady reminder that Spot was there, and Race wasn’t alone.

Race let out a slow breath, finally starting to properly calm down. “I love you,” he said again, quietly, not expecting a response.

“Go to sleep, Tony. I gotcha,” Spot mumbled. “I don’t know any lullabies or nothin’, but nothin’s gonna happen to ya, I swear to God.”

Race smiled. It would probably be a while before he could fall asleep again, but at least with Spot there, he felt safe.


	89. Is Dance a Kink?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race’s car breaks down. Spot doesn’t mind being a chauffeur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine the title of this chapter in Patrick Star’s voice.

On Tuesday morning, when Race turned the key in the ignition of his Corolla, nothing happened. “What the fuck?” He frowned and turned it again. Still nothing.

Spot hummed placidly. “That’s great. I love it when cars do that.”

“What the fuuuck,” Race repeated, turning the key a few more times for good measure.

Spot snickered. “Car’s dead, babe. Come on, I’ll drive.”

“I didn’t even do anything to it!” Race protested, unbuckling anyway. He certainly wasn’t about to turn down an excuse not to drive.

“Calm down, Jesus has a plan,” Spot teased, moving back towards the front door. “I gotta get my keys. I’ll tell your mom about your car.”

“Anakin, stop panakin’,” Race mumbled absently, crossing his arms and leaning against the side of the car, “Jesus has a planakin.”

Spot disappeared into the house and returned a minute later with his keys. “Your mom’s gonna call someone about your car.”

“Cool,” Race replied, pushing off the car and pausing to grab his backpack from the back seat before heading for Spot’s.

They piled in and started off towards school, with Spot letting Race choose the music as always. Race didn’t know how Spot still had the patience to let him pick. His musical taste was...varied, to say the least. Once you hit Eminem and Aram Khachaturian back to back, people usually don’t let you DJ anymore. Spot clearly had the patience of a saint—with Race, at least.

“Ah, shit,” Race said as it occurred to him. “Do you mind driving me to dance tonight?”

“Course not,” Spot answered. “I’ll just go to Hot Shot’s or something.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks. I don’t like missing class unless I really have to.”

“I’m well aware, twinkle toes.”

“Shut up,” Race reached over to lightly shove Spot’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t like it if I started missing classes, either.”

“Oh?” Spot shoved him back. “Why’s that?” 

“Why d’you think I’m so bendy, stupid?”

Spot laughed. “You know? You’re right.”

“Yeah, bein’ this hot don’t come easy,” Race quipped, snickering.

They made it to school and parked without incident. Spot turned off the car and unbuckled his seatbelt. “C’mere, I wanna give you a kiss.”

Race obeyed happily, unbuckling and leaning across the center console, he grabbed a fistful of Spot’s shirt and tugged him into a short, sweet, downright domestic kiss.

“Love you,” Race said when they broke apart.

“You, too,” Spot replied.

They got out of the car, and Spot wrapped his arm around Race’s waist as they made their way into the school.

* * *

“I think my parents are totally over the whole ‘college’ thing,” Hot Shot told Spot over a plate of microwave nachos—you know, the shitty but delicious kind that’s just Tostitos with shredded cheese sprinkled on top, then microwaved. “It’s pretty funny watching them pretend to be excited about movin’ a kid into college for the  _ fourth time _ .”

Spot chuckled. “Tell ‘em my parents’ll do it for ‘em. They get to do it zero times.”

Hot Shot chuckled, as well. “We should just trade life plans. I bet mine would be so pumped to have a ‘proper military man’ in the family.”

Of course, Spot chose this moment to gun down Hot Shot’s character in the first-person shooter they were playing. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea for you, man.”

“What can I say? I’m not really the super soldier type.”

“My mom thinks the army is gonna be ‘too violent for her little boy’,” Spot scoffed. “Y’know, she actually texted me that other day? ‘Too violent for her little boy’, which is just...fucking rich, coming from her.”

Hot Shot scoffed, “Yeah.” Then, he frowned. “Wait, what? Why?”

Spot’s eyes widened slightly as he realized that Hot Shot didn’t know about... _ that _ . He’d gotten so used to talking freely around Race. He dragged a hand over his face and sighed, “Haven’t you heard? Stepdad’s been smackin’ me around since I was six.”

Hot Shot sat up a little straighter, pausing the game and looking over at Spot in surprise. “Oh my god, what?”

“Yeeeuup,” Spot replied casually.

“Damn. You never said anything.”

“Nooope.”

“I mean, it’s your business,” Hot Shot said, “but like...you coulda talked to me.” He continued quickly, “I’m not trying to guilt trip you or make it about me or whatever. I just mean I’m always here for you.”

How was Spot not supposed to feel guilty, after that? “Thanks, man.”

“Of course. We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, o’course.”

“I just wish I’d known back when we were kids. I’d’ve invited you over a lot more.”

“Thanks,” Spot said again.

Then, mercifully, he got a text, and with it, an excuse to end the conversation.

“ _ Hey baby, don’t worry about picking me up right at 9 _ ”

Then another, immediately.

“ _ Susan’s combination kicked my ass, and I wanna stay a bit to practice _ ”

“ _ 9:30 then? _ ” Spot texted back.

“ _ My hero _ ,” came the reply.

Spot was brought back to earth by an amused snort from Hot Shot. “How’s your lover boy?”

Spot batted blindly at his face. “Shut up. He’s at dance.”

“Ooh, so extra sexy,” Hot Shot teased, dodging his attacks.

“Damn right.”

“I mean this with the highest respect possible—ten to one he’s gonna strip his way through college.”

“He is  _ not _ .” Spot smacked Hot Shot on the back of the head. “He could, but he’s not.”

“Hey, I said respect! Sex work is real work!”

“I didn’t say it’s not, but that’s a lotta eyes I’d have to put out.”

“Plus, you’d go broke buying up all his lap dances.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Spot scoffed. “I don’t have to  _ pay _ for lap dances.”

“Maybe not  _ now _ ,” Hot Shot teased.

Spot smacked the back of his head again. “You’re just jealous.”

Hot Shot smacked back at him. “Ehh, ya boy ain’t my type.”

“I’m not talkin’ about Race, dumbass!”

“What the fuck are you talking about then?”

Spot waved him off. “Ah, forget it.” He picked up the game controller again. “I got an extra half-hour until I have to pick him up, now. Wanna keep playin’?”

“Sure.”

* * *

Spot took a wrong turn on his way back to the studio and ended up arriving at around nine thirty-five. Race hadn’t called or texted him in a panic yet, so hopefully it wasn’t a big deal. He parked out front and headed in. Surprisingly, the lights in the lobby were off, and there was no one sitting at the front desk, but there was light and music coming through the open double doors that led into the studio proper. Spot walked over and peeked inside, assuming that’s where Race would be, but not wanting to barge in on anyone else practicing. It was a big room, almost entirely covered by dance floor, with a full wall of floor length mirrors adjacent to the wall the door was on. Race was the only one inside, in the middle of the floor, dancing.

It wasn’t ballet—at least, it wasn’t Spot’s idea of ballet, but Spot was no expert, so maybe it was ballet. Whatever it was, though, Race was making it his bitch. Spot had never seen anyone move the way that boy could—in fact, he hadn’t even known that boy could move that way. Not even two days before, Spot had seen Race walk face first into the wall of the cafeteria, because he took the turn for the hallway too soon. Now, every twist, turn, and leap was controlled, precise, effortless, and perfectly fit to the music, like gravity and normal body physics couldn’t even touch him, like it was  _ easy _ . It was captivating.

It was...really fucking hot is what it was.

Holy shit.

Race didn’t notice Spot watching. He seemed to be entirely lost in music. At least, he was for another minute. Then he started to lose his balance in the middle of a bunch of turns chained together and stepped out of it. He wrinkled his nose up in displeasure as he frowned and stopped to shake his supporting leg out. He started to jog-walk in a small circle, heading back to his starting place, and as he turned, he saw Spot in the doorway and screamed, tripping back half a step and landing flat on his ass.

Spot just barely managed to have a thought beyond ‘holy shit, hot boyfriend’ and rushed over. “You okay?”

“Holy fuck, you scared the hell out of me!” Race complained, accepting Spot’s offered hand to pull him to his feet, and Spot pulled him straight into a kiss.

“Mm!” Race hummed in surprise, but quickly kissed back.

Spot ran his hands up Race’s arms, over his shoulders, and into his hair before pulling back. “That. Was the  _ hottest _ thing. I’ve ever seen.”

“Wh—” Race laughed. “Me falling on my ass?”

“Not that part, dumbass.” Spot kissed him again. “You never told me you were  _ that good _ .”

“I guess we never really talked about it?”

“Well, fuck, warn a guy.”

Race laughed. “I didn’t know you were gonna sneak up and watch me!”

“Would you have preferred I wait in the car?”

Race shrugged in a surprisingly sheepish sort of way. “I don’t usually dance with folks watching.”

“I don’t know why not.” Spot shook his head. “You’re fucking amazing.”

Race smiled. “Shut up, I’m alright.”

“Alright, my ass.”

He rolled his eyes, but was clearly pleased by Spot’s praise. Spot, for his part, was still pretty worked up, so he grabbed the front of Race’s shirt and backed him into the nearest wall. Race laughed and brought his hands up to cup Spot’s jaw, pulling him in for another kiss. At this point, Spot was genuinely weighing the pros and cons of taking Race right there, in the middle of the dance studio. He slid his hands up under Race’s shirt to grab onto his waist.

Race giggled against his mouth and pulled back a bit to break the kiss. “I didn’t realize you were so into dancing, baby.”

“Me either.” Spot immediately pressed their lips together again.

Race hummed happily, sliding his hands back from Spot’s jaw and up to tangle in his hair.

“Mm. Car?” Spot managed through frantic kisses.

“Yeah,” Race agreed breathlessly.

They grabbed Race’s things on their way to the door, and Race stopped just short of the threshold, balancing on one foot to tug his shoe off. “Hang on, I can’t wear my dance shoes in the parking lot.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Spot reached down, wrapped his arms around Race’s legs, and hoisted him up onto his shoulder.

Race squealed and burst into laughter as Spot carried him out the door and across the parking lot to his car. Luckily, he had parked pretty close. He somehow managed to finagle the backseat door open and get Race inside with minimal discomfort. Race got his other shoe off and dropped them over in the front seat, out of the way, as Spot climbed in on top of him.

“My.” He kissed one of Race’s cheeks. “Beautiful.” The other. “ _ Talented _ .” His forehead. “Boy.” He kissed all over his face, just to make him laugh. It was a loud, bright, joyful laugh, maybe forty-percent giggle. Race threw his arms around Spot’s neck and pulled him down into a proper kiss. Spot considered tickling him just to hear that laugh again, but he thought better of it and kissed him back instead.


	90. These Boys Own Our Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race is sad, and Spot tries to make him not sad, with limited success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bad news: As it has come up a few times, I feel I need to break it to you all that Theories of Conflict...has...an end...like, not _written_ or anything, but planned.
> 
> The good news: We have the next several chapters written, and some of them already edited!
> 
> The warning: Race has a panic attack in this chapter. Our b.

March twelfth was always a bad day for Race. 

As soon as he woke up, it felt like there was a hole in his chest—not particularly painful, just gaping and empty, achingly void of something that  _ should _ be there but wasn’t anymore.

Long ago, Race had told his parents he didn’t want them to make a big deal out of the day, so they didn’t say anything, but they couldn’t help but be a bit more gentle and more loving than usual. Mrs. Higgins reaching out to smooth down his hair, letting her hand linger for a moment on the scar on the back of his neck, every time she passed him in the kitchen at breakfast. Mr. Higgins patting his back or his shoulder and calling him ‘buddy’, like he was still a little kid. Even Spot seemed to be just a little softer than usual, and Race wondered if that was because he remembered or if he was just picking up on Mr. and Mrs. Higgins’ energy.

“I’m fine, guys, really,” Race said when Mrs. Higgins went to fix his hair for what must’ve been the thirtieth time that morning.

She smiled sympathetically. “Just let us know what you need, okay?”

He sighed quietly. He knew they just wanted to make the day better, easier, but he mostly felt...numb, like part of him was shut down to keep it from hurting. “Just...normal...would be good.”

“You got it, bud,” Mr. Higgins assured him.

Spot slung his backpack onto his shoulder as he made his way over to Race and patted his shoulder. “Ready to go?”

Race nodded, grabbing his backpack off the floor as he stood. “Yeah.”

They headed out to Spot’s car, as Race’s was still in the shop, and got in.

On the way to school, Race tried his best not to flinch at every bump in the road, or wince at each change in momentum, but by the time they pulled into the parking lot, he was shaking, and could feel tears pushing at the back of his eyes.

“Hey, come on. Let’s get out,” Spot said.

“Y-yeah,” Race agreed, fumbling a bit as he tried to undo his seatbelt.

Spot stepped out of the car and rounded the front to Race’s side while Race pressed the button on the buckle again and pulled on the belt, but it didn’t unlatch. His breathing picked up as he tried again and again, and tears began to blur his vision. Spot opened the door, quickly reached in, and unlatched his seatbelt.

“I can’t—” Race sobbed. “It won’t—”

“I got it, Tony. You can get out, now.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, hyper aware of the tears trailing down his cheeks and how unnecessary they were, but unable to properly focus on anything other than how tight his chest felt and the awful buzzing feeling in his arms. Spot gently grabbed his arms and pulled him out of the car, into a tight embrace. Race curled against him, pressing his face into his shoulder and gripping the sides of his shirt as tight as he could, desperate to ground himself and to make the panic stop before his head could fill with the sound of metal crushing against metal, and the lights, and the sirens, and the awful heat of it—why had it been so hot?  _ Had _ it been hot? Or had it just been the pain?

Spot rubbed his back. “You’re okay. I gotcha. You’re on the ground—feel? With your feet?”

Race took a shaky breath and started to answer, but instead just whimpered.

“Good,” Spot said. “Keep breathing. You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.”

Race pressed his face harder into Spot’s shoulder, taking comfort in his faint, sandalwood-y sort of scent and the fresh laundered smell of his shirt. That was two things he could smell...he could feel Spot’s arms around him—and that he was still shaking—but he was gripping too tightly to feel Spot’s shirt in his hands.

“I can’t remember.” He managed around another quiet sob. He was supposed to be trying to ground himself, but there was too much going on in his head, all blurry and bright. “It’s too loud, I can’t remember.”

“What can’t you remember?”

“How to—” He was interrupted by a ragged breath. “How to—” Again. “How—” And another.

“Albert,” Race heard Spot say quietly. “Al, do you know what to do? He’s— I think it’s about his dad.”

“Ah, shit,” Albert said, then Race felt a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Racer.”

Race took another shaky breath, but failed to say anything around the tears.

“‘S he just upset, or...?” Albert asked.

“No, he’s panicking.”

“Gotcha,” Albert replied, and Race felt another hand on his other shoulder. “‘Kay Race, it’s you, me, an’ Spot, we’re right here with ya.”

Race held onto Spot tighter and cried. He could hardly draw a proper breath, and what little air he could get in was forced out too soon by awful, aching sobs. It wasn’t fair, nothing had even happened, but now he felt so much fear and sorrow that he was afraid he might just explode right there in the middle of the parking lot if he didn’t scream, but he  _ couldn’t _ scream, cause he couldn’t breathe. 

“Does he have anything he does to, like, get out of it?” Spot asked. “Counting or...I don’t know—something like that?”

“Oh shit, the grounding thing,” Albert said, and Race nodded. “Yeah, you remember, Race?” Albert continued. “Uh, five, right? What’s five things you can see?”

“I can’t see nothin’,” Race managed to choke out, face still buried in Spot’s shoulder.

“Five things you can hear, then.”

“Y-you,” he hiccuped, “n’ other people.” The parking lot was probably full of other students by now—a PTSD fueled meltdown in the parking lot was sure to do wonders for his reputation in the rumor mill. “C-cars,” he whimpered.

“Good job, baby. That’s three,” Spot said.

“I can hear you,” Race continued.

“That’s four,” Albert encouraged.

Just then, the morning bell rang. Race wailed at the sudden, loud noise, and his head was full of sirens again. He tried to duck, seeking cover, relief, escape, anything, and Spot went down to the ground with him.

“There’s five,” Albert grumbled, and he quickly moved to the asphalt as well.

Sobbing anew, Race curled in on himself—having let go of Spot when he dropped—and pressed his hands over his ears, more desperate to quiet the ringing  _ in _ his head rather than without.

Albert wrapped himself around his back, and Spot cradled his head against his shoulder, murmuring softly in his ear, “Shh, it’s alright. It’s alright.”

“Y’ wanna try ‘feel’?” Albert suggested, rubbing Race’s arm comfortingly. “What’s four things you can feel?”

“Y-your hand,” Race started, voice thick and choked with tears. “Your—your arms.” He meant it aimed at Spot, and reached out shakily to get a grip on Spot’s shirt. “Your shirt.”

“Hell yeah,” Albert enthused. “You got one more?”

“M-my sock’s slipped off my heel inside my shoe,” Race sniffled.

“Oh god, we gotta fix that,” Spot said, immediately reaching for Race’s shoe.

Race burbled into a tearful laugh, uncurling a bit to lean back more against Albert, and Albert secured his arms around Race’s middle while Spot set about untying his shoe.

“It’s okay,” Race told him with a sniffle, starting to pull his foot away.

Albert lightly jostled him. “Shut up and tell me three things you can see.”

Race let out a short exhale that was amused, but still half a leftover sob. “Uh, I can see Spot, that car,” he nodded to the car in front of them, “and uh, the parking space line.”

“Two things you can smell?”

“I think I’m okay now,” Race assured him, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“Finish the damn exercise,” Albert demanded. “Two things you can smell.”

Race laughed shortly. “Alright. I dunno...the air and parking lot? Is that a smell?”

Albert shrugged. “Works for me.”

“Now, let me guess,” Spot said. “One thing you can taste?”

“My tongue.” Race sniffled, feeling distinctly better by this point. “Though I’d rather taste yours.”

“Okay!” Albert immediately withdrew his arms. “He’s back. I’m out.”

Race laughed, still a bit breathless, and wiped his eyes. “Thanks, guys. Sorry.”

Spot reached out and brushed his cheek. “No problem, gorgeous.”

“I couldn’t unbuckle my seatbelt,” Race explained to Albert, “and I sorta freaked out.”

“Gotcha.” Albert nodded, offering a hand to pull Race to his feet.

Race accepted, and Albert pulled him up into a brief guy-hug—you know, hands clasped, gentle shoulder check, two rough pats on the back, and done.

“Thanks,” Race said again.

“You wanna go to first period late, or skip and start with second?” Spot asked.

“My brain’s still kinda...” Race widened his eyes and wiggled his hands a bit to indicate the post-panic brain fog.

“Okay. We can wait.”

“Sorry,” Race said again, and Albert scoffed.

“You think we’re mad about missing first period?

Race chuckled airily. He was feeling a bit light headed from all the hyperventilating and crying.

“You need anything?” Spot asked.

Race shook his head, then grimaced as his brain rattled around his skull like a lone die in a Yahtzee cup. Spot rubbed his back soothingly, and Race exhaled slowly. “You guys mind if we sit down again?”

“Sure,” Albert agreed, sitting down and leaning back against the wheel of Spot’s car.

Race sat down next to him, and Spot sat on Race’s other side. He felt better with both of them there, his two protectors—not like they could exactly protect him from his own brain, but still. Race half wished that Jack was there, too, but at the same time, he was glad there was someone inside to soak up all the gossip that was bound to start circulating about his parking lot meltdown. The rumor mill of Duane High was a well-oiled and seldom gentle machine, and although most dreaded to be the one caught under the grindstone, Race always reveled in the attention it brought. There’s no such thing as bad press.

* * *

“First and foremost, you’re addicted to crack and in the throes of withdrawal.”

“Well I know  _ that _ ,” Race scoffed, reaching over the lunch table to smack Jack’s chest with the back of his hand. “Come on, Jack; I want the rumors!”

Jack snickered and shoved his hand back. “Second, you had a psychotic break. The reasons why vary. Some of the more desperate freshman girls think you’ve realized you were straight all along.”

Race snorted and glanced at Spot. “Yeah, right.”

“Others think you seduced some politician’s son, and said politician ruined your college prospects.”

“Jesus Christ, I really get around, don’t I?”

“Yes,” answered Jack, Spot, Albert, and several nearby students.

Race sputtered into laughter. “Good to know my precious reputation is still intact after my little performance.”

Albert chuckled, and Race reached over to bat at Jack again. “Go on, what else?”

“Oh, just...dumb shit,” he said, waving Race off.

“Nah, c’mon, like what?”

“Honestly, Jack,” Spot said, cringing a little, “it’s probably better if he hears it from you.”

Race looked over at Spot, frowning a bit at the serious tone on his voice, but still mostly amused. “Oh shit, is it bad?”

Jack pressed his lips together. “Close to home.”

His frown grew slightly. “Okay...?”

Jack hesitated a moment more, then sighed. “I guess someone remembered that you lost your dad in an accident, but it got a little twisted, and now people think it happened today. This morning.”

Race felt his stomach drop sickly, and his eyes widened a bit. “Oh.”

Everyone got quiet after that.

Race assured them that it was fine and he wasn’t bothered—just more funny, stupid gossip—but it  _ did _ bother him. More than the rumor itself, what bothered him were the looks people kept giving him the rest of the day—those tight lipped smiles that pretended to be sympathetic, but were really just pitying. He hated those and how each one was a reminder that even now, thirteen years after the fact, even with an adoptive family that loved him, he would always be the sad, pitiful little boy whose dad had died.

* * *

“We don’t have to stay long or anything,” Race assured Spot as they turned onto the long driveway that led through Legacy Hill Cemetery’s high, wrought iron gates.

“Just stay as long as you want,” Spot said. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Race nodded, then quickly instructed, “It’s the second parking lot on the left.”

“Cool.” Spot pulled into the parking lot and parked in the closest space.

Race took a breath before unbuckling. He hated visiting his dad’s grave. Facing such a glaring, solid reminder that he was gone, and there was no getting him back, not even just to talk to him, not even for a moment—it hurt like hell, but it felt important, so every year, he came back.

Spot followed him out of the car, hanging back a little bit, like Race was a land mine that needed a radius. At least, that’s how it felt. “It’s this way,” Race told him, heading across the lawn. It was cold, but there was no snow, though the ground was pretty squishy.

By the time they reached the gravestone, Race was fairly certain his heart had sunk down into his boots. “Welp, this is him.” He gestured to the headstone and the painfully familiar name on it’s face. “Sean, meet my dad. Dad, this is Sean.” His voice cracked as he spoke, and tears sprang into his eyes.

Spot came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. Race took a shuddering breath, putting his hands over Spot’s, and the tears started to fall in earnest. Spot held him tight, pulling him back against his chest, and kissed his shoulder.

“I remember the first time I visited,” Race spoke through the tears, “after I got out of the hospital. The social worker had to carry me back to the car, ‘cause I didn’t want to leave him.”

“How many years has it been, now?” Spot asked quietly.

“Thirteen.”

He hummed in acknowledgement.

“Thirteen fucking years,” Race said, wiping the tears off his face, even though they were immediately replaced by more, “and I’m still gutted for the whole day.”

“Fuck, baby, of course you are.” Spot came around so he was in front of Race, slightly to the side so he wasn’t actually between him and his father’s headstone, and put his hands on his shoulders. “Tony, you’re so strong.”

Race scoffed, though it came out as more of a sob.

“Come here.” Spot pulled him into a hug.

Race wrapped his arms around him and dropped his head against his shoulder. “I’ve already cried so much today,” he whimpered.

“You cry as much as you need to.”

Race held on tight and let himself cry. It wasn’t awful, aching sobs or anything, it was just like someone had turned a faucet on inside his head, and he couldn’t stop the tears, or all the longing and sadness they washed out with them. Surprisingly, having Spot there was a relief—something to hang onto, something else to think about. He didn’t usually like bringing other people when he came to visit his father. He’d brought his parents once, the year he’d been adopted, and it just felt awkward—like having others there somehow trivialized it, and took away the importance, but bringing Spot felt important, too. Spot was a part of his life that he would have shared with his father, had his father still been alive. It felt right.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” Race sniffled.

“Don’t be. You have every right.”

He straightened up and wiped at his tear stained cheeks, sniffling again. “Is this weird for you? Are you okay being here?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” Spot said.

“I think you’d have really liked him. My dad I mean,” Race went on, then he scoffed helplessly. “I mean, I guess I don’t really know, I was only five, but from what I remember he was really cool.”

“Yeah?” Spot smiled, reaching out to take Race’s hand. “I hope he would have liked me, too.”

“I think he would’ve,” Race replied, twining their fingers together. “You’re pretty cool, too.”

“Yeah, but I did call you a fag a few times.”

Race laughed. “I sorta deserved it.”

“Well, yeah, but still.”

Race waved dismissively, not wanting to think about the less than positive start of his relationship with Spot right then. “He would’ve liked you.”

“Good.” Spot squeezed his hand.

They were quiet for a moment, just looking at the gravestone, and Race sighed quietly, wiping at his eyes again as more tears threatened to push through. “It’s just not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” Spot agreed.

Race sighed again, then admitted. “I feel sort of...guilty...for wishing he was alive...”

Spot frowned. “Now why the  _ fuck _ —” He held a hand out towards the gravestone. “Pardon my French, sir. Why the fuck would you feel like that?”

Race couldn’t help but laugh before he answered. “‘Cause of my folks. Wishing dad was alive means wishing I wasn’t adopted.”

“No, it means you miss your dad.”

“Well, but if he was alive, I wouldn’t have been in the system, and then I would’ve never even have  _ met _ Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, let alone been adopted by them.”

It was kind of funny how now it felt so weird to call them ‘Mr. and Mrs. Higgins’ when once it had been so weird to call them ‘mom and dad’.

“So what?” Spot asked. “You’re not allowed to be sad that your dad died?”

“Well no, of course I’m  _ allowed _ to be sad. I just mean it’s messy n’ complicated.”

“Nothin’ you should feel bad about,” he insisted.

Race shrugged sheepishly. “I know it’s dumb.”

“No, it—” Spot sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, I know,” Race assured him.

Spot turned to stand by his side again, never letting go of his hand. Race turned his attention back to the headstone for another quiet moment, letting his eyes trace over the familiar inscription.

“He would be thirty-six,” he said quietly.

Spot didn’t say anything, but he kept a careful eye on Race.

Race sniffed, not wanting to cry again. “It’s fucking bullshit.”

“‘S too young,” Spot said.

Race nodded in agreement.

After an expectedly uncomfortable pause, Spot asked. “What do you usually do here?”

Race let out a small, slightly embarrassed laugh. “Usually I uh, sort of just talk to him? I don’t think it really counts as praying, since I’m aiming for dad, not God...”

Spot nodded. “Well, don’t let me stop ya. Or I can wait in the car for a bit, if you’d like.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Race said, “though I can’t blame you if you don’t want to stand with a guy talking to a rock.”

“I’m perfectly content where I am.”

Race smiled and squeezed his hand gratefully. Spot gestured for him to go on, and Race pressed his lips together for a moment before turning back to the grave. “Uh...hi, Dad.” Fuck. He wiped roughly at the fresh tears on his cheeks and sniffed before continuing. “Well, biggest thing since last time is I’m in love with the kid who broke my nose in third grade.”

“That’s me,” Spot said. “Hi. Sorry about his nose.”

Race laughed, not expecting to be so relieved that Spot was talking, too. “Yeah, it was a pretty rocky start, but I think we’re doing good now.”

Spot shot him a crooked smile and Race went on to tell his dad about some of the less explicit highlights of their relationship—specifically the laser tag on Valentine’s Day and how great Spot was about Race ambushing him with the whole ‘I’m super mentally ill’ thing.

He trailed off for a moment to think about what to say next. “Uh, let’s see, what else have you missed…?” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he got choked up again. ‘Missed’. He’d missed  _ everything _ . Every nightmare. Every vacation. Every cut, scrape, or bruise. Every straight A report card. Every boyfriend. Every breakup. The last thirteen birthdays. Race pressed his free hand against his mouth, closed in a fist, to stifle a sob, and Spot wrapped an arm around him again. It wasn’t  _ fair _ . That was the big colossal takeaway; it wasn’t fair. Race hadn’t done anything to deserve this, and  _ God knows _ his dad hadn’t, either.

Race tried to start another sentence, but all that came out was a whimper, and then he was crying in earnest again.

After a moment, Spot spoke up. “I, um—” He cleared his throat. “I hope you would have liked me, because I’m kind of, like, crazy about your kid. He’s, uh...” He patted Race’s shoulder. “He’s neat.”

Race burst into watery laughter. He couldn’t believe Spot was actually carrying on for him. It was awkward, and he so clearly didn’t want to, but by God, it was sweet.

“Wow, that was stupid,” Spot muttered under his breath. Then, full-voiced, “Right. Well...you’re, like, twenty-four forever, which is not that much older than me, so I think we can just talk like friends...you know, despite the fact that I’m having premarital sex with your son. Great job, by the way. He’s fine as hell.”

Race gasped and laughed, smacking at his shoulder. “That’s my  _ dad! _ ”

“God, sorry, I’m being rude.” Spot cleared his throat again. “Look, I know I’m not the Prince Charming every parent wants for their child. I know I’ve done some messed up stuff, and I’m kind of a jackass, but I promise,” he said, “I’m going to take good care of him. I know you can’t be here for him anymore, but I swear on my life, I will be.”

The sweetness of that was the icing on the cake, and Race fully burst into tears. Spot wrapped his arms around him tightly, and Race buried his face in his shoulder, shaking with sobs. Spot was so sweet, and he was so terribly, achingly sad, and none of it was fair.


	91. The Rootin’-est, Tootin’-est, Sharp Shootin’-est Cowboy in the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Return of Javid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B and I can’t write a Newsies fic without Javid. That’s all this is.  
Additionally, guess what these boys get to deal with???

Race let out a squeak of indignation as Albert and Spot teamed up to knock his character off the platform in Super Smash Bros. “Traitors!” he complained. “That was my last life.”

“Now it’s a fight to the death,” Albert announced flatly. “Winner gets my last Capri-Sun.”

“Man, I don’t want your Capri-Sun,” Spot shot back.

“Winner gets kisses from me,” Race suggested, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Man, I don’t want your kisses!” Albert countered, and Race pouted loudly.

Spot went on talking to Albert. “We’re gonna see you on that addiction show where people drink laundry detergent and fuck their cars someday.”

“Capri-Sun is a perfectly normal and valid drink choice,” Albert insisted.

“How much would I have to pay for you to stick your dick in a Capri-Sun?”

“That’s stupid.”

“Answer the question, Al,” Race snickered. “There’s worse things to stick your dick in.”

“I bet you could fit it through the little straw hole and everything,” Spot added.

“Could not!” Albert snapped, and Race dissolved into giggles.

“Fuck!” Spot muttered as Albert won the game.

“Ope! Kisses time!” Race announced gleefully, crawling across the couch towards Albert.

Albert blocked him and groaned. “Fuck off!”

“Racer!” Spot gasped. “You tryin’ to kiss another man right in front of me?”

“He won; it’s the rules!” Race insisted.

“Rules my ass!” Spot protested, pulling him back and kissing all over his face.

Race squealed in happy laughter, and Albert rolled his eyes heavily.

Just then, Mrs. Higgins emerged from the hallway. “Boys, has anyone at the school said anything about going online?”

Albert turned his attention to her quickly. “Online, for what?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Spot asked. “It’s the new plague.”

“Oh, no,” Race cut in before Albert could answer. “You see, Sean, Albert lives inside a giant Capri-Sun pouch, so he can’t get any news, cause the tv signal can’t get through the tin foil.”

“Shut up, I’ve heard about the coronavirus or whatever,” Albert argued.

“A lot of schools are switching to online,” Mrs. Higgins explained, “right now, in the middle of the year.”

“It’s crazy,” Race affirmed. “No one at Duane has said anything. At least, I don’t think.”

“Well, hopefully you’ll hear _ something _ soon.” She gestured vaguely around the living room. “Everything okay in there? You need anything?”

“Albert needs to take his due and take my kisses, but other than that we’re good,” Race told her.

“Okay, carry on.” She disappeared back into the hall.

There was a second of quiet, and then Race attempted to launch himself out of Spot’s arms and towards Albert again. “Take my kisses!”

Spot held him back as Albert kicked at him.

“It’s the rules!” Race all but shrieked.

Albert opened his mouth, presumably to shout back, but fell silent and frowned at the front door instead as the lock rattled strangely. Race turned to follow his gaze curiously, as did Spot. Moments later, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

“Oh good,” Jack sighed with relief. “You’re both here.”

“Did you just pick the lock?” Spot asked.

Jack didn’t answer, just padded into the living room and flopped onto the couch across all of their laps, leaving the door wide open behind him.

“What the fuck?” Race sputtered, more amused than anything.

Jack rolled over onto his back, wiggling to keep from falling off the couch, and gazed up at the ceiling. “Do I look different?” he asked.

“You look deranged, busting into people’s houses; is that what you mean?” Albert asked.

“It’s an emergency.”

“What happened?” Race asked.

Jack sighed wistfully. “David _ fucking _ Jacobs happened...”

Albert snorted. “He finally put out?”

Jack let out a long, breathy, squeaking noise.

Race laughed. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. How was it?”

“Wait, is this the same guy from New Year’s?” Spot asked, and Jack nodded minutely. “Shit, man, he’s cute. Way to go.”

“Hey,” Race pouted at Spot. “I thought _ I _ was cute?”

“You’re _ gorgeous_, gorgeous,” Spot assured him, poking him in the stomach.

Race whined and smacked at his hand. “I wanna be _ cute!_”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Albert groaned. “Can’t we just enjoy that Jack finally got his dick wet?”

Race turned and smacked the back of his head, loudly hissing. “My mom is in the other room! She doesn’t wanna hear about Jack’s wet dick!”

“Well, I do.” Spot punched Jack’s shoulder. “Deets, man.”

Despite his complaint, Race was actually delighted. He was happy for Jack—the poor boy was not usually one to play the long game—but moreover, he was _ very _ pleased that Spot and the guys were getting along.

“Okay! Okay,” Jack conceded, sitting up, squishing in between Race and Albert. “It was...well, objectively terrible. It was his first time. But my _god_, guys, he’s so pretty and smart and _funny_. I just—” He exclaimed wordless and flopped back against the back of the couch. “Do I look different? I feel different.”

Albert scoffed. “You look like an idiot, but that’s not different.”

“You must be really into him, if you’re this messed up over bad sex,” Spot added.

“Ahh, young love,” Race cooed wistfully.

“So are you an’ Dave, like, a real thing, or are you just fooling around?” Albert asked Jack.

“We’re a thing,” Jack said, getting a bit of a thousand-yard stare going again. “Fuck, he’s—...he could be it for me, guys.”

Race snickered. “You always fall so fast.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk!”

“Yeah, takes one to know one,” Albert agreed, smirking.

“Oh, be nice to my little love slut,” Spot said, and Race could tell without even looking that he was smiling.

“_ Love slut!? _” Albert repeated, making a face, and Race burst into laughter.

Jack shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

“Can you two not be disgusting, just for a little while?” Albert went on.

“You’re just jealous cause you’re not in love,” Race shot back.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Spot snickered. “He has his Capri-Suns.”

* * *

Four Useless Gays In Love

Race: Guys I’m a genius

Race: Why didn’t I think of this before?

Race: We should totally double date

French Girl: Who is this?

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: how did you get David’s number???

Race: Don’t worry about it

* * *

“Babe, why are you texting me?” Spot asked. “I’m literally in your bed with you right now.”

“Because,” Race replied, rolling over so he was half on top of him, “I want you to feel included in the conversation.”

“How did you get David’s number?”

“I‘m a genius. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

He’ll Paint You Like One Of His French Girls: it’s Race.

French Girl: Hi, Race. I would be willing to go on a double date, but I can’t do Fridays or Saturdays.

* * *

“‘Willing’. Oh my god, he’s so cute,” Race said aside to Spot, snickering.

* * *

Race: That’s okay

Race: School night rules are for suckers

French Girl: I’m usually free, otherwise.

Race: Wanna do Thursday?

Race: We could go bowling

* * *

Spot and Race met Jack and Davey at the bowling alley at seven p.m. on Thursday. Race drove, having gotten his car back from the shop, and between that and the date, he was very excited. He did a happy little pirouette on the way across the parking lot, and Spot shook his head fondly. Goddamn, he loved that dumb boy. 

Race stuck his tongue out at him. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Y’ think they’re here yet?” he asked, stalling for a moment to let Spot catch up, then falling into step beside him.

“I dunno,” Spot said. “We’re a little early, but this boy a’ Jack’s seems like the punctual type.”

“Yeah,” Race agreed, “Jack’s type, for sure.”

“How so?”

“All smart n’ well mannered and stuff.”

Spot blinked. “Jack Kelly’s type is _ smart and well mannered? _”

“Makes ya wonder how we ever hooked up, huh?” Race snickered.

“Nooo,” Spot groaned, cringing. “Don’t talk about you and Jack hooking up.”

Race laughed. “It only happened once or twice, and it was ages ago. Don’t sweat it.”

They stepped into the bowling alley and found Jack and Davey sitting on a bench near the entrance. Jack was laughing at something Davey said.

“Hey fellas,” Race greeted cheerfully.

“Hey.” Jack nodded in greeting, and he and Davey stood up.

They all went up to the counter and got their shoes, and were directed to lane eight. First, of course, they had to stop by a rack to pick out their balls.

This went about as you would expect.

Race offered to carry Spot’s, making a dumb joke about being used to handling his balls, and Jack absently observed that his was bigger than Race’s.

“It ain’t about the size, Jackaboy, it’s how you use it,” Race quipped.

“Should I be insulted?” Spot asked.

Race shot him a dazzling grin. “Nah, you got the moves _ and _ the equipment.”

“I’m about to crush you all,” Jack said, in a probably intentional change of subject. “Y’all ready to be crushed?”

Davey quirked an eyebrow at him. “‘Y’all’?”

“What? It’s a common enough turn of phrase,” Jack responded.

“Sure,” Spot said, “if you’re a cowboy.”

Jack picked his ball up off the conveyor and headed for the lane. “Well, you can just call me the rootin’-est, tootin’-est, sharp-shootin’-est cowboy in the West then, cause I’m about to knock all these pins down in one go.”

Davey snorted. “What—you mean like a strike?”

Jack turned around to point at Davey with his free hand, walking backwards a few steps, and shot him a wink before turning back to the lane, and holy shit, he actually managed a strike.

Spot whistled appreciatively. “Nice shot, Cowboy.”

“Woo!” Jack whooped in victory, spinning around and shooting finger guns into the air.

Davey rolled his eyes, but he was clearly trying not to smile. Spot had done the exact same thing to Race too many times not to recognize it.

Jack came back over to take his seat next to Davey—stopping briefly to steal a quick kiss in passing. “A’right, Spot, you’re up.”

Spot stepped up and took his turn. It didn’t go nearly as well as Jack’s, but he did manage to down eight pins by the end.

“Hell yeah, baby!” Race cheered for him anyway.

A warm, pleasant feeling filled Spot’s chest, and he smiled back at him.

“Your go, Dave,” Jack said.

Spot sat down by Race and dropped an arm over his shoulders. Davey stepped up to the line and, wouldn’t you know, rolled a strike.

Race applauded. “Hey, look at the wonder twins over here.”

“Power couple!” Jack cheered, high-fiving Davey.

“Alright,” Race pecked Spot on the cheek and stood up, “watch me bomb this shit.”

He grabbed his ball and headed for the lane, winding up ridiculously before sending the ball to knock down two pins on his first shot, and then he sunk a pretty spectacular gutter ball on the second.

“Proud a’ you, baby,” Spot said.

Race came back over and dropped into Spot’s lap, rather than returning to his own seat. “So,” he said, throwing his arms around Spot’s neck, and turning his attention to Davey. “You and Jack are official now, so I have to ask; what are your intentions with my sweet boy?”

Jack groaned, tipping his head back against the seat.

Davey laughed. “Oh, is this it? Our double date with you is what makes us official?”

“I mean, I know you were official before now, but I haven’t had a chance to ask about your intentions.”

“Dave, you don’t have to answer that,” Jack insisted. “He’s just being an ass.”

“I assume there’s more fuckin’ in the works. Congrats on that by the way—”

“Race!” Jack and Spot both interrupted, but it was too late. Davey’s eyes widened, and he turned to Jack, cheeks turning bright red.

“You told him?” he asked quietly, looking absolutely mortified.

Jack flushed as well and stammered. “I— I was just really excited, and he’s my friend, we talk about everything.”

Spot was cringing. “If it helps, it’s not a big deal to Race.”

“Yeah,” Race agreed, “it ain’t a big thing—I mean, your first time is, that’s huge, I’m happy for you, and Jack definitely knows how to handle a first timer, so—”

“Racer, Jesus Christ.” Jack covered his face with his hands.

Spot blinked a couple times while that processed. “Hold up.”

Race looked at him curiously.

“How do _ you _ know that?”

“...Uh...” Suddenly tactful, he looked to Jack, but Jack seemed well on his way to wishing himself out of existence.

Later, Spot would freely admit to handling this situation poorly. In the moment, however, he couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than the fact that Race had, apparently, _ lost his virginity _ to _ Jack fucking ‘Cowboy’ Kelly _. “You. Are. Joking.”

Race at least had the good grace to look like he regretted saying anything.

“It was a long time ago,” Jack said, but as Spot wasn’t looking at him, he didn’t know if he was trying to convince him or Davey. “We were, like, fourteen and curious. It wasn’t anything.”

“Yeah,” Race agreed, “it’s not a big deal.”

They were right; it wasn’t a big deal. It was a huge deal. If it really wasn’t anything, Race would have told Spot, and now Spot couldn’t even look at Jack, because he knew, if he did, he would knock him into next _ year _.

Spot was on his way out the door before he even registered shoving Race off him and standing.

He leaned against the front wall just outside and took a deep breath of the cold, night air. Fuck, this was really getting to him for some reason—probably because it was _ Jack _, though Spot wasn’t sure what that had to do with it, either.

A second later, the door opened, and Race emerged. “Yo, what the fuck?” he said, sounding mostly concerned and only a tiny bit indignant.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Spot asked.

“Wh— It never really came up,” he replied, coming over to stand by him.

Spot exhaled slowly and dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to release some of the red hot energy coursing through his body. _ I’m better than this. I’m doing better._

“It’s not a big deal,,” Race insisted. “We were curious and figured it was a better idea to go for it with someone we trusted.”

“Of course it’s a big deal!” Spot argued. “It’s fuckin’ _ Jack!” _

Race frowned, clearly confused. “So!!?”

“So!? He’s all—” Spot gestured, reaching for the right words to describe what he was feeling. It would have been a lot easier if he actually _ knew _ what he was feeling besides ‘pissed off’. “I don’t know! He’s Jack! He’s hot and into guys and he loves you!”

Race sputtered indignantly. “Not like _ that! _We’re friends!”

“I _ know _it’s not like that,” Spot groaned—whined, actually, but he didn’t want to admit that he was being absolutely pathetic.

“So we fucked a few times—””

Spot groaned (whined) some more.

“So what?!” Race continued. “It was just curiosity,w, wantin’ to feel good, there wasn’t any _ depth _ to it.”

That was just annoying in other ways, because Spot knew that a myriad of guys had straight up used Race for his body before he came along, but he didn’t have to like it.

Race let out a breath somewhere between a huff and a sigh. “I don’t get what you’re mad about.”

“I’m mad ‘cause you don’t know when to keep your fucking mouth shut,” Spot snapped, and he immediately cringed, because that was a shitty thing to say, and now he couldn’t look at Race, either.

But lo and behold, that shut Race right up.

“Fuck.” Spot dropped his head back against the wall. “I didn’t mean that, baby. I’m sorry.”

“If you didn’t mean it, you wouldn’t have said it,, Race snapped.

Spot chanced a sideways look at him. He had his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, but looked distinctly like he was trying not to cry,l—like he was determined to be angry, rather than upset or hurt.

Spot sighed, reaching out to him. “I’m sorry.” He tried to pull him closer, , but Race wouldn’t budge.

“I don’t understand why you’re being such a dick about this,” he,” he said, voice wavering a bit the way it does when you’re trying real hard not to cry.

“I don’t know, baby. I’m sorry. Please, just—” Spot pulled again.

Race relented, taking a step closer. “I’m not gonna feel bad about it,he,” he said. “That we fucked _ years ago, _ or that we’re still friends now. I haven’t done anything wrong here.”

Spot wrapped his arms loosely around him. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Is it that you’re jealous?” Race asked, shifting a bit closer again.

Spot wasn’t pouting. He didn’t _ pout. _ He just furrowed his brow and pursed his lips a little bit. “‘M not jealous.”

This denial—that was basically a confession to anyone with more insight than a clam—seemed to cheer Race right up, and he smiled indulgently, uncrossing his arms to loop them loosely around Spot’s shoulders instead. “I don’t have a crush on him anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried!” Spot insisted lamely.

“Yeah, okay.” Race smirked.

Spot huffed. “Jack an’ Dave okay?”

“Yeah. Dave’s crazy embarrassed, but I guess I would be too, ‘f I had any decency.”

“You probably shouldn’t have announced his sex life in a bowling alley.”

Race laughed. “Yeah, guess I don’t know when to keep my fucking mouth shut.”

“You don’t,” Spot confirmed, smiling a bit, “but it’s usually charming”

“Think he’d feel better if I announced our sex life, in solidarity?”

“Not at all, but I wouldn’t be opposed to the whole world knowing you’re mine.”

Race snorted, amused. “I don’t think the Thursday night crowd at a bowling alley counts as the whole world, but sure.”

“It’s a start.” Spot pressed a short kiss to his lips.

“Can we go back in now?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Race stepped out of his embrace, taking his hand instead, and they headed back inside to find Jack and Davey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COVID. It’s COVID. They get to deal with COVID.  
Now, shit’s about to—and I cannot stress this is enough—hit the fan, so buckle in, buckaroos.


	92. Brace for Impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were warned.

The announcement came the following morning. Upon arriving to school, all the students were ushered into the gym, and there they found out that Duane High School was going online indefinitely due to the outbreak. At the end of the school day, they were all to clear out their lockers and take their things home. The news was met with various reactions. Some were sad, some were angry, some were elated. Some, like Spot, just wanted to know how they were supposed to finish the year without a fucking computer.

Race seemed pretty unfazed by the whole thing. “‘Bout time we had another plague. Been sayin’ it for years.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” some random girl scolded him. “People are dying.”

He shrugged. “There’s always some new crisis, I’m sure this one will blow over, too.”

“Don’t do bats, kids,” Albert grumbled.

“Lick frogs, like a respectable human being,” Race agreed, nodding.

Everyone slowly funneled out of the gym and into the hallway, headed to what would be half of first period. Race and Albert chattered on, while Spot descended into his thoughts. How was he supposed to finish school, if he couldn’t go to class? Mrs. Higgins worked from home on the computer in the office, so he couldn’t use that. He and Race could share Race’s laptop for AP Bio, but they didn’t have any other classes together. Maybe he needed to go to the guidance counselor or someone. There had to be a contingency plan. Maybe the school had computers they could loan out. Otherwise, Spot was completely and royally screwed.

“This is gonna be total madness,” Albert was saying. “Online schooling is, like, a whole thing. There’s no way they’re gonna have the whole rest of the semester up and ready to go in just a week.”

“Well, they’d better,” Spot argued. “I ain’t about to graduate late because of the advanced flu.”

“You think they’ll extend the school year into the summer if they can’t get it figured out?” Race asked.

“What else would they do?”

“I dunno.” Race shrugged. “Just let it go?”

Spot scoffed. “If only.”

They had to split up, then, and go about their school days. Everyone was tense, and no one seemed to be paying much attention to the lessons. Spot certainly wasn’t.

It occurred to him, as he stood outside the AP Bio classroom waiting for Race like he always did, that this was the last time he was going to do it. Soon enough, Race came around the corner and headed towards him.

Spot smiled at him. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Race smiled in return and held his hand out for him as he got close. “Hey.”

Spot took Race’s hand and brought it to his mouth for a kiss.

“Ready for our last AP Bio class ever?” Race asked.

“You’re still gonna have to do it online, dumbass,” Albert said, passing by into the classroom.

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Race replied, waving at him dismissively. “That’s not real.”

Spot chuckled. “Yeah, I’m ready. Are you?”

Race shrugged. “Might as well get it over with.”

They walked into the classroom hand in hand.

* * *

The end of the day was absolute chaos. No one was prepared to clean out their locker halfway through the school year. It was a total mess. Race struggled to fit all his books and binders in his backpack, along with all the notes he had mass produced to sell to other students and all the homework and half finished projects he had been hired to do.

“Here,” Spot said, taking a couple of his books off his hands. His own locker had been much easier to clean out.

“This is crazy,” Race said, shouldering his overstuffed backpack. He really didn’t seem to mind the idea of doing the rest of the year online—‘more room for bullshit, he’d said. If Spot didn’t know any better, he’d say Race was rather delighted by the prospect. “I’m gonna be so pissed if they cut spring break because of this extra week off,” Race said.

“It’s the same difference,” Spot pointed out.

“Spring break two, electric boogaloo!” Race insisted, clapping his hands on every word for emphasis.

Spot laughed and grabbed his hands. “Alright, gorgeous. Sooner we get home, sooner Spring Break One starts.”

They headed for the back of the parking lot, where Race had parked that morning.

“These dumbasses are acting like they’re never gonna see each other again,” Race complained as they passed the fourth little huddle of students saying goodbye to each other.

Spot scoffed, but secretly, he was damn glad to be going home with Race. “Never know when your time is up, I guess?”

Race shrugged, dumping his backpack into the back seat. “I guess.”

Spot tossed his backpack in with Race’s and made for the passenger’s seat.

Race got in the driver’s side and buckled in. “D’you wanna stop and get food on the way home?”

“Sure. Where you wanna go?”

“I want Five Guys,” Race said, placing a hand on the back of the passenger seat and turning to look over his shoulder as he backed out of the parking spot. “Like the burgers,” he clarified, “not an orgy, though I’d be down if you are.”

The closest Five Guys was in the next town over, not technically ‘on the way home’, but Spot didn’t point this out. He smirked. “Depends on the guys.”

“Ooh, who who?” Race asked, grinning.

Spot contemplated for a moment before answering, “Tom Holland.”

Race snorted. “I meant, like, that we know, but okay.” He paused for a second to look for oncoming traffic before pulling out of the parking lot, and then continued. “D’j’ou know he’s a dancer? Or at least was, before he got all Hollywood.”

“Really?” Spot laughed. “Fuck, I have a type.”

Race snickered and nodded. “Ballet boy and everything.”

“And the type is baby-faced ballet boy,” Spot added.

“Well thank God, ‘cause I’m the babiest.”

“You’re  _ what? _ ”

“I’m the babiest!” Race repeated, more emphatically.

“You’re somethi—” Spot was cut of by a car horn blaring, and he faced forward again just in time to see one car slam head-on into another’s side at the intersection ahead of them. He sat up straight. “Oh, holy shit.”

Traffic screeched to a halt all around them as what was left of the two cars came to rest in the middle of the road in front, right in front of them. Spot instinctively moved his foot as if to slam on the break, but of course, nothing happened. He reached over blindly grabbed Race’s arm. “Race, slow down.”

Nothing happened.

Spot looked over to see Race, pale-faced, knuckles white on the steering wheel and eyes wide. 

“Race! Race, stop!” Spot shook him, as it felt like the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “ _ Race! _ ”

* * *

Race‘s head was ringing with the sound of car horns and the crunch of metal on metal. He hadn’t actually heard it that clearly—just a loud, bang-ish thud—but he knew what it had sounded like from the inside, and now that was all he could hear. He felt completely disconnected, trapped inside his own body, listening to the screech of tires and that awful, heavy crunching noise. Everything else was muted, frozen, but somehow rushing forward at the same time. A bolt of cold, clear shock had run up his spine, freezing him in place. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t see.

“ _ Anthony! _ ” Spot’s voice cut through, and suddenly Race was in the driver’s seat again. The intersection was rushing towards them, and even if Race  _ could _ have moved his foot and hit the breaks, he knew it was too late. He looked over at Spot as terror, hot and helpless, flooded his throat, and then


	93. Impact

Race was quickly brought back to consciousness by a dull, heavy pain in his shoulder and across his chest, and the distinct shortness of breath brought on by impact and all the air being forced out of you at once. He opened his eyes with a sudden, ragged gasp, and then  _ everything _ hurt. He couldn’t see anything but a light gray haze, and he couldn’t hear anything but a high-pitched ringing in his ears, and he found himself thinking he was dead. Honestly it would be pretty poetic if he’d died in a car crash cause he was too scared and stupid to hit the brakes.

He realized he was breathing—well, more that he  _ wasn’t _ breathing and needed to—and that probably meant he wasn’t dead. Why couldn’t he breathe? He tried to move, and that brought a scream of pain from his waist and his shoulder, as well as the feeling of being slightly smothered by something, and then he remembered the airbag. The airbag had deployed—probably why he wasn’t dead.

The ringing in his ears oh so slowly began to subside, replaced by unintelligible voices that sounded distinctly like they were coming from a tin can. Someone was crying. Was it him? No. No, it was a child. He wasn’t a child, anymore. He registered a hand just barely resting on his leg, and for a second he thought, “Oh God, Dad,” but then he remembered when it was and who it was, and panic spiked in his chest.  _ Spot. _

He shifted his gaze towards the passenger’s side. There was glass and a little bit of blood splattered on the dash. Spot’s airbag hadn’t deployed. Race felt his heart in his throat, and he turned his head a little to get a better look.

There was blood on him, too.

This seatbelt had locked, pulling him back against the seat, but his head was tipped forward. There was blood all over the lower half of his face, dripping slowly from the corner of his mouth.

“Spot.” Race reached for him shakily. “Oh God,  _ Spot _ .” He brushed his hand against his shoulder, but nothing happened. There was just nothing—no movement, no reaction. “Spot,” he whimpered again, dread boiling in his stomach. 

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. It was just another nightmare. It had to be.

Race tried to pull himself closer to Spot, but he was stopped by his seatbelt. It was locked, tight across his chest, and he tugged at it uselessly for a moment in blind panic before he remembered to hit the button on the buckle. He needed to get out. He needed to get Spot out. Things would be better if they could get outside.

“Hey, are you okay?” someone, a man who had run up to the scene, asked, appearing at Race’s window.

Race looked up at him, startled, as he had momentarily forgotten that the rest of the world existed. “We need help,” he said desperately. “He’s hurt.”

The man’s face paled a little as he took in the sight of the two of them. “Someone called an ambulance. They’ll be here, soon. Just...sit tight, okay?”

“I need to get out,” Race said, and he reached for the door handle, but stopped in surprise at the sight of his hand—it was covered in cuts, no doubt from the windshield breaking, and two of his fingers were very obviously broken. Now that he’d seen it, the pain started to register in his head.

“Don’t get out,” the man said. “Just wait for the ambulance, okay?”

Race could hear a woman somewhere in the background, voice shaking as she explained, “Three cars, I think two of the drivers are dead—”

_ Dead _ . The word went through Race like a shot, and he froze. This was his fault. People were dead, and it was his fault.  _ Spot _ was—

He pulled on the door handle. “I have to get out,” he said, voice cracking as tears began to fall.

“No, no, no,” the man said. “Try to relax, okay?”

“How many are in there!?” the woman’s voice called, and the man looked to her.

“Two!” he called back.

The door wouldn’t open. Race pulled on the handle and pushed, ignoring the scream of pain from his shoulder as he used his arm, but the door wouldn’t open. Giving up, he turned back towards Spot, and his stomach dropped sickly as he took in the sight of him again. He was so pale and so still, like a fucked up wax figure of himself. Race whimpered wordlessly and instinctively reached for him, like holding him could help fix what was broken. He was just limp, like a rag doll, sticky where blood was drying on his skin. There was blood everywhere. Race wasn’t even sure what was his and what was Spot’s. His chest ached as a sob tore out of him, and he pulled himself as close to Spot as he could, dragging himself halfway over the crushed center console between them.

He tried to convince himself that he couldn’t feel Spot breathing because he was shaking too hard.

He wrapped his arms around Spot, too terrified to think about how moving him was a bad idea, and pulled him closer. His head was starting to swim, and he shut his eyes tight against the bright, flashing lights from years ago—or maybe from the approaching ambulance. His ears were full of screaming metal and wailing—was it him, or was it the sirens?—and his throat was full of air that was hot, too hot, hotter than it had ever actually been. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he felt like he was dying.

He held onto Spot as tight as he could, shaking with terrified sobs. If he just held on, everything would be okay. Spot would be okay.

“We need some help over here!” the man, still outside Race’s window, shouted.

Distantly, Race knew that meant something was about to happen, someone was there to help, but he couldn’t really form much coherent thought beyond silently begging God and whoever else was listening to just please,  _ please _ keep Spot alive. That is, if Spot was still alive. All Race could do was hold on and pray. Through the panic and terror, he knew he was hurt, too, but that didn’t matter right now; all that mattered was Spot.

He dimly registered someone appearing at his window behind him, and then they came around to the passenger’s side. “Hey,” she said, her voice a very practiced calm. “My name’s Janette. I’m gonna help you, okay? What’s your name?”

“Help Spot,” he managed to choke out through his tears.

“Spot? Is that your friend?” She carefully reached through the shattered window and grabbed a hold of Spot’s wrist, pressing her fingers hard into his skin.

“S-Sean,” Race said, recognizing that he needed to tell her Spot’s real name. Probably last name, too. “Conlon.”

“Sean Conlon?” She kept her voice completely level, even as she frowned and moved her hand, pressing her fingers into the side of Spot’s neck instead of his wrist.

Race didn’t answer as his heart dropped through his stomach. If she couldn’t find his pulse…

“Hey.” She met Race’s eyes. “I know this is scary, but I need you to let go of him, okay?”

Race shook his head. He couldn’t do that. No matter what happened, he couldn’t let go. If he let go, if they took Spot away like they did his father, he knew he’d never see him again.

She went on, “Listen, we’re gonna take care of both of you, but it’s really important that you let go.” She glanced to the side and gestured to someone else, and another paramedic and a fireman made their way over.

Race shook his head again and held on tighter as his tears began to fall thicker and faster.

“Did you get a pulse?” the second paramedic asked.

“I got  _ a _ pulse,” Janette mumbled. She gestured to Race. “I think it’s his.”

“ _ No no no no no no _ .” It took a second for Race to realize he was speaking aloud.

The second paramedic, a man, spoke up. “Hey, try to stay calm, buddy. Everything’s going to be okay.”

This just made Race cry harder and hang onto Spot more desperately.

“I know this is scary,” Janette said again, “but we can’t help Sean if you don’t let him go.”

Race shook his head, he  _ couldn’t _ .

There was a little more hushed conversation that Race couldn’t hear over his own cries, not to mention all the noise in his head. He couldn’t stop hearing Janette saying the pulse was his— _ his _ , Race’s, not Spot’s. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do. The realization trickled coldly down his spine, and turned his stomach to lead.

He heard an awful  _ crack _ of metal behind him as his door was wrenched open from the other side. “Careful with his arm,” someone said, and then a strong pair of arms wrapped around him.

“No!” Race sobbed, clinging desperately to Spot. He tried to hold on, but someone grabbed his good arm and pried it off, and he just couldn’t hold on with the other hand. “Please,” he begged, voice choked with tears, not even knowing what he was asking for anymore.

The paramedics put a weird collar on Spot’s neck, carefully pulled him out of the car, and laid him on the ground. Race could see now that his leg was badly broken, and God, he was so limp, like there was just nothing there. This set Race crying harder. He was a little surprised he had any tears left in him at all at this point. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he was starting to realize just how badly he actually hurt. He could tell his chest was going to be a motley of bruises from the seatbelt, and his shoulder felt like it had been crushed in a vice, but none of that mattered to him. All that mattered was Spot, and Spot was…

Spot was not okay.

A couple more paramedics ran over with a plastic sort of stretcher, and they carefully lifted Spot onto it.

“Take me, too,” Race begged. “Please, I can’t lose him.”

It didn’t seem like they heard him, as they whisked Spot away.

Once he was gone, Race stopped pulling against the paramedic still holding him. It was like everything inside of him had just been ripped out, torn to pieces. He wanted so badly to undo it all, hit the back button, and try again, but this was real life, and there was no going back.

* * *

The transport to the hospital passed for Race in a shell shocked haze. He was still terrified, but in an empty, useless sort of way. Whatever happened now didn’t really matter. He answered the EMTs’ questions on autopilot, giving them his parents’ contact info and a brief, vague explanation of what had happened. It didn’t feel real, and it hit him again every few minutes that it was. Every time it did, he started crying again, until eventually he was all out of tears, and then he was just exhausted and hurting and empty.

They wheeled him into the emergency department, and the nurses there immediately went to work, settling him in a room, until—

A gasp. “Anthony?”

Race looked up in surprise. “Beth?” He’d forgotten that Spot’s aunt was a nurse, but there she was.

Her eyes widened and her hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh my god.”

“Beth, what’s wrong?” the other nurse in the room asked.

Beth made eye contact with Race, and with a quiet, involuntary whimper, he nodded.

“Oh my god,” she repeated, sagging against the doorway.

“ _ Beth _ ,” the other nurse said again, a little more forcefully, as a couple other nurses came to her aid.

“He’s Sean’s boyfriend,” she said shakily. “It’s Sean. It’s my nephew.”

The other three nurses looked at each other, somehow coming to an agreement without any words, and one of them helped Beth out of the room while another took her place.

“How are you feeling, Anthony? What hurts the most?”

“My soul,” he deadpanned, genuinely meaning it. He hadn’t heard a damn thing about Spot since they took him away, but judging by Beth’s reaction, it wasn’t good news. He had to try, anyway. “Where’s Sean?” he asked the nearest nurse. “The other boy in the car with me?”

“He went in for a CT scan a few minutes ago, then he’ll go into surgery,” one of the nurses said. “He’s in really critical condition, but we’re doing everything we can.”

“So, he’s alive?” Race asked, voice cracking.

His two nurses shared a heavy look. “He’s alive.”

A woman in a white coat stepped in. “How’re we looking, in here?”

“Heart rate and BP are pretty elevated,” one of the nurses said.

“No wonder why. Anthony? I’m Dr. Kendall. I’m gonna be taking care of you. Mind if I take a look at your hand?”

“Where are my parents?” Race asked, holding his hand out towards her.

She held it gently, turning it slightly to get a better look. “We got a hold of your mom,” she told him. “She was going to call your dad and be on her way.”

He exhaled, trying to convince himself to calm down, at least a little. Spot was alive, and his parents were on their way.

“Airbag got you good, huh?” The doctor let go of his hand. “The EMTs told me you hurt your shoulder, too, so I’m just gonna feel around it. This might hurt a little, I’m sorry.”

Race winced as she examined his shoulder, it definitely hurt more than ‘a little’.

“Well, I think it’s just dislocated,” she said, “so here’s the plan; I’m gonna put you on some pain meds, then get some X-rays, see what we’re dealing with and make sure we’re not missing anything. You’re probably gonna need a little surgery on that hand—nothing major, I promise. Is there anything else that hurts or feels funny that you want me to look at?”

Race shrugged, and winced at the movement in his shoulder. “It’s kind of hard to breathe?” He wasn’t sure if that was just lingering panic, or something to actually worry about.

“Okay.” The doctor took the stethoscope from around her neck and put it on. “Let me have a listen.” She placed the end of it on his chest, moving it a couple times before she took it back off and replaced it around her neck. “Everything sounds okay, but let me know if it keeps bothering you.”

“When will my folks be here?” Race asked, feeling the now upsettingly familiar ‘I’m stuck in a hospital’ panic starting to properly root in his stomach.

“Last I heard, they’re on their way. I bet they’ll be here, by the time you’re done with X-rays, okay?”

“Okay,” he answered shakily. “Will someone tell me when Sean is out of surgery?”

“Of course, but Sean’s going to be in surgery for a while,” she said, then turned to one of the nurses. “Get him started on some morphine, okay? Then take him down to X-ray.”

“Got it,” the nurse responded, and she set about preparing an IV.

Even though nothing particularly upsetting was happening in that moment, Race started to cry again. He was still so afraid. What if Spot wasn’t okay? And it was his fault. He barely even registered the nurse sticking him with an IV, then taping it to the back of his hand.

“I’m gonna take you to get your X-rays done, alright?” she said.

He nodded miserably, and she and the other nurse wheeled him out of the room. They passed the nurse’s station, and Beth was there, curled up in a chair, crying on the phone. With a sickening feeling in his stomach, Race realized she was probably telling Spot’s mom what had happened. Lord knows that’s a phone call no one wants to make, especially not to their sister.

Race thought about the other drivers, the ones who were probably dead. He wondered if they were dead before his car slammed into theirs at fifty miles per hour.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he said.

“Do you need to stop for a moment?” one of his nurses asked, slowing down considerably.

He didn’t think that stopping would help, but he nodded anyway, gripping the rail on the hospital bed in an effort to ground himself.

“Get him a pan?” the nurse suggested, and moments later, there was a metal bedpan in his lap.

Race stared at it, trying desperately not to think—not about Spot, or the people in the other cars, or the hospital, or how it was  _ all _ his fault—and of course trying not to think about it made it all swirl around in his head faster, dizzyingly, until he felt an awful heave in the pit of his stomach and doubled over the pan. The nurse rubbed his back gently as he retched, closing his eyes against the unpleasant sensation of his stomach attempting to turn itself inside out through his throat. Every time he threw up, Race always found himself wondering if anyone had ever died that way—couldn’t stop throwing up, so they couldn’t breathe, and boom, game over.

“You okay, Anthony?”

He shook his head. No, he wasn’t okay. In no way was any of this okay. This was possibly the least okay he’d ever been, and he’d been pretty fucking not okay in his life.

“We’ve gotta get the X-rays, but then we’ll get you back to your room and resting as soon as possible.”

“I don’t want to rest,” he whimpered quietly, “I want to see Spot.”

“Spot?”

“Sean,” he corrected.

“Sean’s in surgery,” the other nurse reminded him, taking the bedpan away.

“I know.” He sniffled, wiping at his mouth and eyes with the back of his hand. The other nurse handed him a tissue, and they continued down the hallway.

* * *

Once they were finished getting X-rays of his hand and his shoulder, the nurses brought Race back to his room. He was surprised to see someone else in the room as they wheeled him in, and then a flood of relief washed over him as he realized who it was.

“Dad.”

Mr. Higgins looked up, and it was obvious he’d been crying and was trying very hard not to be anymore. “Tony,” he breathed. “Thank God.”

Of course, this, on top of everything else, set Race off crying again. Luckily, this time, his father was there, gently petting his hair and whispering assurances.

“Spot’s hurt,” Race whimpered, hanging onto the front of his father’s shirt.

“I know, buddy.”

“It’s my fault,” he said, so gutted by actually saying it aloud that it was barely audible. “I was driving, and some guy hit the car in front of us, and I froze, and— and— and—” He sobbed, gasping for breath at each pause as he spoke.

Mr. Higgins shushed him, gently wiping the tears off his cheek. “It was an accident, Tony.”

“It’s my fault!” he wailed.

Mr. Higgins shushed him again, and Race dissolved into miserable sobs.

Out in the hallway, he heard his mother’s frantic voice. “I’m Rachel Higgins, I’m here for my son, Anthony.”

“Room four,” one of the nurses said.

Seconds later, the door opened, and she rushed to the bedside, where Race shifted from clinging to his father to her instead, still shaking with sobs.

“Oh, Tony,” she whimpered, laying her hand on the back of his neck and holding him close to her chest, careful of his injuries.

He hung onto her as tight as he could without further hurting his hand or shoulder—thank God it was on the same side, or he would’ve been entirely useless. It was another moment or so of crying before Race was able to properly speak again. “Spot’s in surgery.”

“I’m sure he’s in good hands, Sweetie.”

“What if he doesn’t make it?” Race whimpered.

“Don’t think about that, buddy,” Mr. Higgins said.

Dr. Kendall returned then, and she frowned sympathetically at Race before turning to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. “Hi, I’m Dr. Kendall. Are you the parents?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Higgins confirmed.

“Good. I’m glad you’re here.” She turned back to Race. “Well, Anthony, it’s like we thought. Your shoulder is just dislocated, and I don’t see any damage to the bone up there. I’m gonna put it back in place, but it’s not gonna feel great.”

A quiet whimper escaped his throat, but he nodded.

“Alright.” She took a hold of his bad arm as Mr. Higgins grabbed his good hand.

“Look at me, buddy,” he said, kneeling down beside the bed.

Race locked his eyes on his father, squeezing his hand tightly and gritting his teeth. Race was no stranger to pain, but that didn’t mean he was good at handling it.

“Do you want me to count, or would you rather not know?” Dr. Kendall asked.

“Just do it,” Race said tensely, “before I throw up again.”

“Ok—” His shoulder cracked painfully back into place. “—ay, all done. All done.”

Race gasped at the pain and grit his teeth harder, squeezing his eyes shut against the threat of tears. “Cool beans,” he managed tightly.

Dr. Kendall chuckled lightly and held up her hands. “Alright. That’s the worst thing I’m gonna have to do to you.”

“Until you chop off my hand, right?” Race asked, flopping his bandaged hand around carefully.

She laughed some more. “Based on what I saw on the radiographs, I think you can keep it, but I do think you should go for surgery. We want to make sure you get it back as normal as possible.”

“Now?”

“In an hour or two, if you want it. We  _ can _ splint it and hope for the best, but there’s a good chance you’ll lose some range of motion in those fingers.”

Race looked to his parents for direction. He didn’t really care what happened to his hand, he cared about what happened to Spot, and the fate of his fingers had nothing to do with that.

“I would go for it, Sweetie,” his mother said. “I think you’ll regret it later, if you don’t.”

“Okay,” Race affirmed.

Dr. Kendall nodded. “I’ll get you on the schedule, and we’ll get that done in a couple hours. It’s an outpatient surgery, but I’m going to ask for you to be admitted overnight, so we can keep an eye on everything else. If everything looks good, we’ll get you out of here in the morning, okay?”

Race swallowed nervously. “Do I have to?”

“Stay overnight?”

“Yeah...”

“He’s nervous in hospitals,” his mother clarified.

“I see. Well...” Dr. Kendall pursed her lips for a moment. “If the surgery goes well, and everything else looks normal, I’ll see about discharging you before the end of my shift at midnight. Is that alright?”

Race nodded. “Better, yeah.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “I’ll go get you on the schedule for surgery. Let the nurses know, if you need anything.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mrs. Higgins said as she headed out the door.

As soon as she was gone, Race’s parents were back to fussing over him, all, “Are you okay?” and “Does anything hurt?”

He wasn’t okay, of course, and everything hurt, but there wasn’t much to do about it beyond what was already being done. The morphine helped to dull the pain, but it wasn’t gone. “I want to see Spot,” he said pathetically.

His mother brushed her hand over his hair. “I know, sweetie.”

“After the crash,” Race continued miserably, “he was so still and pale.” He whimpered quietly. “The paramedic couldn’t find a pulse on him. I dunno if he was even breathing.”

Mrs. Higgins laid her head down next to his and laid her arm across his chest, as close as she could get to hugging him without jostling his shoulder.

“What if I killed him?” The whole ‘not crying’ bit wasn’t really holding up well.

“You didn’t kill him, Tony,” Mr. Higgins insisted. “It was an accident.”

“But it was my fault! If I hadn’t frozen up—”

“It doesn’t matter now. All we can do now is pray and hope for the best.”

* * *

The time passed easier once Mrs. Higgins found the remote for the hospital room’s TV; it’s harder to spiral and panic with Jeopardy on.

“These species of bivalve mollusk are known for their ability to create pearls by coating irritants in many layers of nacre.”

“Uhh, what is a clam?” Race guessed, and Mr. Higgins made an ‘incorrect’ buzzer sound. Race placed his palms together, and aimed his fingers at his father. “What is a  _ fancy _ clam?”

The participant onscreen offered, “What is an oyster?” and was deemed correct.

“Ahh, I was close,” Race grumbled.

“I’ll take The Arts for two-hundred, Alex,” said the next contestant, and the question appeared on screen.

“This leading male character dies at the end of a 1957 Broadway musical based on Romeo and Juliet, featuring music by Leonard Bernstein.”

“Who is Tony, duh,” Race answered.

The contestant onscreen cringed. “Who is, uh...Jean Valjean?”

Mrs. Higgins squawked indignantly. “Since when is Les Mis based on Romeo and Juliet?”

“Valjean is Romeo, and the bread is Juliet, clearly.”

“To be fair, that prompt was awful,” Mr. Higgins said. “It could have said, ‘This is the blandest character in all of musical theatre,’ and she’d have gotten it.”

(Mr. Higgins’ opinions on West Side Story are his own and absolutely reflect the opinions of Andy)

“Bland character, but pretty vocal part,” Mrs. Higgins half-agreed.

“A waste of good singers, if you ask me.”

Sadly, before the musical theatre discourse could continue, there was a gentle knock on the door. “Yes?” Race called, looking over.

The door opened, and a slightly disheveled looking Beth stepped in. “Hi...”

Race sat up straight, petrified that she was here with bad news. “Is he...?”

“Still in surgery,” she answered numbly, then looked to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. “Are you Anthony’s parents?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Higgins confirmed. “I’m Rachel, this is Joel.”

“Beth Friedman,” she replied. “I’m Sean’s aunt.”

“Oh, the aunt that kicked him out?” Mr. Higgins asked, and Race cringed.

“Joel,” Mrs. Higgins scolded. It was too late, though. Beth’s breath hitched, and she started crying. “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Higgins said, shooting a quick glare at her husband.

“I just wanted to check on Anthony,” Beth said, wiping her eyes to little effect. “He’s supposed to be my patient.”

“I’m fine,” Race said. He wasn’t, of course, but there wasn’t really anything Beth could do for him, if Spot was still in surgery.

“Good.” Beth nodded tearfully. “I’ll leave you alone. I just—”

“Will you tell me when he’s out?” Race interrupted, pretty tearful again, himself.

Beth looked a little taken aback by this question. “Of course, Anthony.”

“And...can I see him?”

“Of course,” she said again.

“Thank you...” He felt like he should say something else. She was clearly upset, but he was pretty damn upset himself, and he had no idea what to say.

She smiled—a weak, shaky thing that looked like it might have hurt. “You know he’s crazy about you.”

Race exhaled something between a laugh and a sob.

“His parents are going to be here,” she went on to say. “I don’t know if he ever told them about you.”

Dread sank in his stomach at that. “Wait, what?”

“I don’t think he ever came out to his parents,” Beth clarified, misunderstanding his question.

“I— No. No, he didn’t,” Race confirmed. “They’re coming here?” Of course they were. Of course she’d told them. They were still his parents—well, Mark wasn’t. Race cast a terrified glance towards his dad, reflexively hoping he would have some idea what to do to make it better. Mr. Higgins squeezed his arm reassuringly. “When, uh, when are they gonna be here?” Race asked Beth.

“A couple hours,” she said.

“Do you think Spot’ll be out of surgery before then?”

She shook her head, and Race took a shaky breath. “Okay, thanks for giving me a heads up.”

Beth looked at him, then at his parents for a moment, before coming a little farther into the room and taking a seat in a chair. “Has anyone told you what’s going on?”

“No,” he said, and it came out as more of a whimper than he’d meant it to.

She took a deep breath and started to explain. “He has...among other things...what’s called an intracerebral hemorrhage. He’s bleeding in his brain, and it’s causing a lot of pressure. The surgeon has to remove the excess blood to try and relieve some of that pressure.”

“Oh.” Race’s voice cracked, and he closed his mouth quickly to keep from bursting into tears.

His mother took his hand, while his father asked, “What does that mean for him?”

Beth’s eyes had glossed over a little bit. It was obvious she had detached herself, talking about the injury instead of Spot and using pronouns instead of his name. She exhaled. “The injury itself is common, but the case is severe, not just because of the hemorrhage. We’re dealing with a lot of blood loss, hypovolemic shock, fractures, a ruptured lung. He’s not stable enough for surgery, but there wasn’t any other choice. If the pressure in his skull doesn’t go down, we’re looking at permanent brain damage at best.”

At this, Race did start to cry. He was terrified, he was guilty, he would’ve given anything to rewind and stop today from happening. His mother pulled him into a hug, and he leaned into her. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, not sure if he was apologizing for crying or for having probably gotten Spot killed.

Beth took a shaky breath. “Me, too.”

For a moment, nothing happened, and Race just cried into his mother’s arms. Then, Beth said, “I’ll leave you alone,” and it sounded like she was crying again. Race heard her stand up. “I’m so sorry, Anthony.”

Then, she was gone.

“He’s gonna die,” Race sobbed, “and it’s all my fault.”

“You don’t know that,” Mrs. Higgins said, brushing a hand over his hair, but she didn’t even sound like she believed herself.

“We should pray for him,” Mr. Higgins suggested.

With a whimper, Race nodded. He held his parents hands and closed his eyes while he silently begged God to do anything,  _ anything _ , but take Spot from him.


	94. A Couple Different Shades of Awful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We didn’t mean to make the number eight a recurring thing in this chapter, but there’s a lot of eights.

About an hour or so later, Beth came back in briefly to let Race know they’d come soon to take him for surgery for his hand. Race asked for updates on Spot, but she didn’t have any new information.

“What if something happens while I’m under?” he said to Mr. Higgins.

“You’ll find out as soon as you wake up,” Mr. Higgins assured him.

“What if—” His voice broke and he tried again. “What if he doesn’t have that much time?”

Mr. Higgins sighed lightly. “It’s out of our hands, buddy.”

Of course, Race was also nervous about getting surgery in general, but it wasn’t like it was major surgery. He really didn’t have that much to worry about—not that ‘not having much to worry about’ has ever stopped anyone from worrying about anything, ever, but still. The nurses came in to get him, and he bid his parents farewell, and they took him to another room to prep him for surgery. 

“You ever had surgery before?” the anesthesiologist asked.

“Yeah, when I was five,” Race told him. “I was in a car accident, and broke, like, everything.”

“Yikes.”

“I guess I recovered pretty well, though, all things considered. The doctors said I probably should’ve died, or at least been paralyzed, but now I, like, dance and shit.”

The anesthesiologist nodded. “Well, cool. You’re not too nervous then?”

Race shook his head. “No, I’m really nervous.”

“Don’t be. I’m gonna make sure you’re out like a light.”

The surgeon stepped into the room, then, as the anesthesiologist finished placing Race’s IV. “How’s it going, Anthony? Ready to get this hand fixed up?”

“How long is it gonna take?” Race asked.

“Not too long. An hour, maybe two.”

“I’m not trying to rush you or anything, I just want to be there when Spot wakes up.”

The surgeon and anesthesiologist shared a confused look.

“My boyfriend was in the car with me, in the accident,” Race explained, trying to keep his tone even. He really didn’t want to start crying again in front of more strangers. “He’s in surgery, now. He got hurt worse than I did.”

“I see,” the surgeon said. “Well, I’ll try to get this done as soon as possible.”

“So,” Race sought quickly for something to distract him before he could get himself worked up again, “tell me, doc; will I be able to play piano after recovery?”

“I expect so.”

“Cool, I’ve always wanted to play an instrument.”

The anesthesiologist snorted and started laughing.

Race grinned. It was an absolutely terrible joke, but humor is one hell of a coping mechanism.

“Alright, kid.” The anesthesiologist stepped back in front of him. “We’re both bound to confidentiality, so be honest; you ever been, just, blackout drunk?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“This is like that. Just slowly count backwards from ten. You won’t make it to one.”

“Bet.” Never one to back down from a pointless, impossible challenge, Race started counting.

He hit ‘eight’, blinked, and was back in his hospital room with an overstuffed, fuzzy sort of feeling in his head, and new bandages on his hand.

His mother was there, and she smiled at him. “Hi, sweetie.”

“Am I done?” he asked stupidly.

“All done.”

“Can we go home, then?”

“Not yet.” That was his father’s voice. “It’s only eight o’clock.”

“Oh.” A light bulb clicked on in the dumb fluff in his head, and he looked over at his father. “Did Beth come back? Did she say anything about Spot?”

Mr. Higgins nodded. “They were able to place a chest tube to help with his ruptured lung, and they’re still working on getting the swelling in his brain to go down.”

He breathed a sigh of quiet relief. It wasn’t the miraculous, sudden good news he was praying for, but it was still some good.

“His parents got here a little bit ago,” Mrs. Higgins added.

That was less good.

“Beth knows not to say anything about us, right? Me and Spot, I mean?” Race asked nervously.

His parents got quiet for a second. “I don’t know, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins said.

“She knows he’s not out,” Race said. “She  _ wouldn’t _ say anything...”

“We’ll remind her, next time she comes back.”

“What if they won’t let me see him?” he whimpered.

She frowned. “Why wouldn’t they let you see him?”

“Cause we’re gay, mom!”

“They don’t know that, bud,” Mr. Higgins said.

“But what if Beth tells them!?” He knew he was getting himself freaked out over things that hadn’t happened yet, but right now, he didn’t have much else to fixate on. 

“Sean’s eighteen,” Mrs. Higgins pointed out. “Can they even make that call?”

Mr. Higgins just shrugged.

Admittedly, that was a good point, but before they could continue the discussion, there was a knock on the door. “Yes?” Race called, hoping it was Beth, or anyone else, with good news.

The door opened, and it was Beth, but if the look on her face, was anything to go by, she didn’t have good news.

“Hi, Beth...” he greeted, suddenly not in a hurry to ask how Spot was.

“Hi,” she mouthed more than said. She pulled a chair up to his bedside and sat down.

“What’s going on?” he asked nervously.

“Tony...” She hesitated, and he didn’t like it. “Sean...” She hesitated again, and he  _ really _ didn’t like it. She sighed lightly. “The swelling in his brain isn’t going down like we hoped it would.”

“So...what happens now?” Race asked. She was probably there to tell him there was some other, scarier, riskier thing to try, right? They couldn’t just  _ give up _ .

“The surgeons are still trying,” she said, “but Tony—” Her voice caught. “There’s not much else we can do.”

“But there is  _ something _ else, right?”

She shrugged, shaking her head slightly in a helpless, ‘I don’t know’ sort of way.

“They can’t just give up,” Race said desperately.

“They’re not just giving up, Tony. You have to understand—”

“He’s dying!” Race wailed. “You came in here to tell me he’s  _ dying _ , and it’s because of me, and there’s nothing we can do to help him!”

“—we’ve been fighting a losing battle. The only reason the EMTs even bothered bringing him here is because we sent two ambulances and the other survivor didn’t need one.”

“What’s the point of even  _ having _ hospitals if you can’t even help people!?” he sobbed. He felt a hand on his back, probably his mother’s, and he broke down into tears, crying hard enough that he couldn’t talk anymore. It wasn’t  _ fair _ . He was going to lose Spot, and it was all his fault. No matter what happened, Race would never forgive himself.

“We’re trying,” Beth said, just barely able to get the words out herself. “I just thought you deserved to know.”

But Race didn’t want to know. He would’ve rather gone his whole life without knowing that Spot was dying. He kept hoping he would wake up—that this was just some horrible dream, and he could go downstairs and crawl into Spot’s arms and fall back asleep. The thought of never holding him again, never seeing him smile or hearing him laugh, never having him run his fingers through Race’s hair or use a stupid Boyfriend Coupon, the thought of visiting a gravestone with ‘Sean Matthew Conlon’ etched into it—it hurt in an all-consuming way Race could never have imagined.

“I wish it was me,” he sobbed.

“Don’t say that, baby,” his mother said, and it sounded like she was crying as well.

He did though. Better him than Spot. Better  _ anyone _ than sweet, strong, thoughtful, smart, funny Spot. He was only eighteen. It wasn’t fair. He was only  _ eighteen _ .

* * *

Not too much later, Jack and Albert showed up to try and give Race some comfort, or maybe just distraction, and Mr. and Mrs. Higgins stepped out of the room for a bit. When Mrs. Higgins had asked earlier if he wanted Jack and Albert to come, Race had said yes, but now he was just terribly, existentially tired. There wasn’t anything Jack or Al could do. There wasn’t anything anyone could do.

At some point, Jack had climbed into the bed with him and was now stroking his hair. Al was in a chair to the side, watching TV.

“What would you guys do if I died?” Race asked.

“Give in to the impending alcoholism,” Albert deadpanned.

“I suppose that’s a fair answer.”

“I’d just be sad,” Jack said. Then, under his breath, “Probably make for some bitchin’ art.”

Race snorted. “Damn, I shoulda been a painter instead of a dancer, I’ve got  _ plenty _ of material.” Of course, this only reminded him of everything that had happened and was happening, and then he was crying for what was probably the five-hundredth time that day.

“Shshsh,” Jack cooed, petting his hair some more.

“Guys what the fuck am I gonna do?” he whimpered.

Albert exhaled. “I dunno, man.”

“He’s dying, because of me. If I hadn’t frozen, we’d be fine, none of this would be happening.”

“If you hadn’t frozen,” Albert said. “If you hadn’t gone that way. If you hadn’t had to stay at school a few extra minutes to clean out your locker because of the damn coronavirus. If you hadn’t been assigned as project partners. If you hadn’t lost your dad in an accident when you were five.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “You’ll drive yourself crazy, thinking like that.”

“I just wanna see him.” Race sniffled. “I just wanna tell him I’m sorry, and I love him.”

“He knows you love him,” Albert said.

“I wanna  _ tell _ him.”

Neither Albert nor Jack seemed to have an answer for him.

“I’m never gonna see him again,” Race said miserably. He wasn’t looking for contradiction or comfort, it was just fact.

Even so, Albert argued, “You don’t know that, yet.”

“You’re right; they might let me say goodbye—” He couldn’t quite finish the word before bursting into tears again.

Jack squeezed him a little bit, waiting for him to catch his breath again. “Do you want to talk about him?”

Race nodded. He always wanted to talk about Spot, but now, he didn’t really know what to say. “...I just think he’s neat.”

Albert and Jack both laughed lightly.

“Oh my god, Jack,” Albert began. “Remember when he didn’t know Race was adopted, but we all thought he was just being a dick, and we fuckin’ cornered him in the stairwell?”

Jack snorted. “Poor guy.”

Race looked back and forth between them. “Wait, what?”

“You weren’t there,” Albert told him. “It was literally just me and Jack, like, the second week of school.”

Jack smiled. “Remember when we all spray painted ‘Spot Conlon sucks’ on the old rubber factory?”

“I drove past it the other day,” Albert said. “Someone put some tag over part of it, so it just says ‘lon sucks’.”

“We should find out who to talk to about making it like an official memorial art installation thing,” Race suggested.

“What—just ‘lon sucks’?”

“Well no, we’d have to redo it.”

“...You really want your boyfriend’s memorial to say he sucks?”

“I mean he  _ does _ —” Race almost corrected himself to say ‘did’, but teared up again instead. He wasn’t ready to start talking about Spot in the past tense.

Albert grimaced. “Man, I don’t need to know that shit.”

“Too bad, what if that’s what I wanna talk about?”

“Hey,” Jack cut in. “What are you gonna do with the bird?”

Oh shit, the bird.

“Probably keep her? We can bond over both having dead dads.” It was supposed to be funny, but it just made him start to cry again. The realization that Spot was never going to come back to Lizzie and she was never going to know why hit hard. “Fuck.” He sniffled and wiped a hand across his eyes. “What am I gonna tell her?”

Albert frowned. “The bird?”

“Yeah, she deserves to know!” He wiped at his eyes again, even though the tears were immediately replaced. “But she’s just a dumb bird; how am I gonna make her understand?”

Jack and Albert shared a look of concern, like maybe they thought Race had finally cracked, and maybe they were right.

Obviously it wasn’t actually about the bird, but it was one more thing, on top of all of it, and it was just too much. He didn’t know how he was supposed to go on, after this.

“Hey...” Jack tightened his arms around him again. “You’re gonna be okay, you know? Maybe not for a while, but you will be.” He finished quietly, “You have to be.”

* * *

True to her word, Dr. Kendall discharged Race just before midnight, but when Mr. Higgins asked if he was ready to go, clearly anticipating a ‘yes’, Race shook his head.

“I want to wait for Spot to be done in surgery.”

Mr. Higgins raised his eyebrows, indeed seeming mildly surprised. “Okay. Let’s ask the nurses where we can wait.”

They headed to the nurse’s station, where Beth was also getting off her shift. She, too, looked surprised. “Oh. Are you leaving?”

Race shook his head again. “I’m gonna wait for Spot.”

“Oh,” Beth said again. “Would you like to wait with us? I was just about to head up...”

Now, he didn’t at  _ all _ want to wait with Spot’s mom and Mark, but they would be the first to know what was going on…

“That would be great. Thanks, Beth.”

“Of course, Anthony.” She went back to gathering her things, then stopped suddenly, turning back to Race with her eyes slightly widened. “I told Julie and Mark—his parents—that you’re his  _ friend _ . If  _ you _ want to tell them more than that—”

He let out a blustery, relieved breath. “Oh, good. Okay. Good. Thank you.”

“I don’t know when Sean was planning to tell them.”

_ Probably never _ . Race just shrugged.

Beth finished clocking out, then they all headed towards the elevators. Race was absolutely dreading meeting Julie and Mark. He’d never met a boyfriend’s parents before, let alone abusive parents that didn’t even know he was the boyfriend. It occurred to him he should probably check in with Joel ‘Ready To Throw Down’ Higgins and make sure he wasn’t planning to start anything.

“You’re gonna be cool, right?” Race asked lowly, falling back a step to walk next to his father.

“Of course, bud.” Race could tell he was gritting his teeth. “He’s their son.”

“I’m not happy about it,” Race admitted, “but that’s not important right now, right?”

“Right.”

Race nodded, and they all stepped onto the elevator. Now that something was happening—even if that ‘something’ was just a change of scenery—he was even more antsy. Plus, Spot had been in surgery for eight hours. He understood it was an intensive surgery, but surely  _ something _ had to have changed by now?

He jumped a little bit when the elevator stopped, having gotten lost in his thoughts, and let out a brief, nervous breath before following Beth out into the hall. Meeting Spot’s parents was probably—hopefully—going to be super anticlimactic. After all, they were just meeting their son’s friend. Nothing intense or special or terrifying about that.

...Well.

They were meeting their son’s friend, who crashed a car, killing him, so this was gonna be a couple different shades of awful.

They followed Beth down a couple hallways to a waiting area. Julie and Mark were the only ones there. Looking at Mark—boring ass, suburban looking motherfucker—and knowing what he’d done, and how he’d hurt Spot, Race felt a nauseating anger start to boil in the pit of his stomach, but he pushed it down, determined to ignore it, and not make an already bad situation even worse. Besides, Mark was clearly miserable already, staring into dead space while his wife cried on his shoulder. Race almost felt bad for Julie. She looked like absolute hell, red-faced and snotty-nosed with her eyes all sunken in. She looked like the ‘after meth’ picture on one of those ads, but Race figured Spot would have mentioned if his mom was a junkie.

They looked up as the small entourage approached, and Beth went to hug her sister, leaving Race to stand awkwardly a little ways away, with his parents flanking him. He knew he should introduce himself, or say something, but he  _ really _ didn’t want to.

Once Beth pulled away from Julie, she gestured back to him. “This is Anthony. He’s going to wait with us.”

Julie forced a tearful smile. “Hi, Anthony.”

Race held a hand up in an awkward half wave. “Hi. I’m sorry about...”  _ crashing the car and probably killing your son _ . “...everything...”

Her bottom lip trembled. “It was an accident.”

“Yeah.” He reached up, fidgeting with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m still sorry...” Jesus Christ, this was uncomfortable. What could he even say?

Luckily, Mr. Higgins jumped in to introduce himself, probably as a purposeful distraction. “I’m Joel Higgins, Tony’s father.”

Mark reaches out to shake his hand. “Mark Young, and my wife Julie.”

Mr. Higgins cringed a little bit. It wasn’t too noticeable, but Race noticed.

“You’re who Sean’s been staying with?” Mark asked.

Mr. Higgins nodded. “Yep. He’s been staying with us for a few weeks.”

_ You know. ‘Cause he doesn’t want to stay with  _ you.

Mrs. Higgins introduced herself as well, with a polite smile.

Race supposed he should be relieved that Julie and Mark didn’t blame him for Spot’s...situation...but somehow, that almost made it worse.

“Have we heard anything yet?” Race asked Julie, sitting down in an empty chair.

Julie shook her head. “Not since the last time... Beth’s been keeping you updated, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, she’s been great.”

“...Good.” She sounded detached, though not in a defensive, walled-off way, like Beth had earlier. Julie sounded dissociated, like her mind was somewhere else entirely, or perhaps nowhere.

She sat back down, and Mark sat next to her. Mr. and Mrs. Higgins sat on either side of Race, and Beth sat on the floor in front of her sister. Race started bouncing his leg anxiously. Sitting here with them was so terribly uncomfortable, and he was hyper-aware of how much that didn’t matter right now. He just wanted to know what was going on with Spot, and his folks would be the first to know, so here was the best place to wait. He ran a hand through his hair, full of nervous, desperate energy. If Spot was  _ still _ in surgery, maybe it wasn’t as hopeless as Beth had said...?

It wasn’t long before Julie began to break down, sobbing hard into her hands. It was an awful, choking, gasping sort of cry. Mark and Beth surrounded her, rubbing her back and murmuring soft assurances that Race couldn’t hear.

“He’s my baby,” she cried. “My little boy. My Sean. I  _ can’t _ —”

Mrs. Higgins grabbed Race’s hand and held it tight, and Race pulled his legs up to curl into a little ball in his chair, tucking his knees to his chest. Even if she was terrible, Julie was still Spot’s mother. She still loved him. Of course, that didn’t do anything to forgive the way she treated him—if anything it made it worse—but...she was losing her baby. Guilt and misery gnawed at Race’s stomach, and he curled up a bit tighter, wishing he could squash them away.

A couple minutes later, a nurse came through a door and rushed over to Julie, Mark, and Beth. She knelt down in front of them, forming a little bubble. Race dropped his feet to the floor and sat bolt upright, holding his breath as he strained to hear.

“...wrapping up. The doctor wants to induce a coma—”

“Induce a coma?” Beth interrupted. “We can’t— What if he stops breathing!? We don’t have any more ventilators—”

“The doctor thinks it a necessary risk. If we can’t reduce the swelling in his brain, he’s going to die.”

“Do it,” Mark said. “Just do it. Whatever you have to do.”

“You have to sign—” The nurse pushed a clipboard towards Mark, and he diverted it to Julie, who quickly scribbled her signature on the bottom. “Thank you.” The nurse took off the way she’d come.

“What’s happening?” Race asked quickly.

Beth exhaled slowly. “They’re going to induce a coma.”

Race took a shaky breath. “Is that...good?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering. “It’s a long shot, but...it’s a shot.”

He bit his lip, not wanting to start crying in front of Mark. After a second, he asked. “Are we gonna be able to see him?”

“Oh, god, I hope so.”

He bit back a whimper, blinking hard against tears. He just wanted to see him, hold him, tell him he was sorry and Jesus Christ how much he loved him. But he couldn’t do any of that. Not with Mark and Julie there.

Mr. Higgins wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and he took a shaky, steadying breath.

Julie cast him a watery, sympathetic smile. “You two must be close, huh?”

_ Yikes _ .

“Oh,” Race cleared his throat, “yeah. He’s, uh, a really good friend.”

“I’m glad he made friends,” Julie said. “He was never good at making friends...”

Race couldn’t help a little choke of laughter. “Yeah, he’s pretty rough around the edges.”

Julie’s smile faded. “He was such a sweet, soft little boy... I don’t know what went wrong...”

Race did.

“He’s a good guy,” Race assured her, “under the angry bits.”

Julie nodded, then slipped into silence.

Race wanted to talk about Spot more, but he knew the more he talked, the more likely he would accidentally stray into Clearly Gay territory, so he stayed quiet.

The next half hour was absolute hell.

Race was exhausted. It was well past midnight, and he was on a high dosage of prescription strength painkillers. He ended up half-dozing on his mother’s shoulder, drifting hazily in and out of consciousness. Every time he drifted, he hoped so hard the nightmare would end, and every time he opened his eyes again, he was still in the hospital. Part of him wanted the doctor to come out and just get it over with, but part of him would have rather stayed in this limbo forever than hear that Spot was gone.

Anything would have been better than losing him.

It was one a.m. on the dot when the doctor finally came in, looking halfway asleep and halfway like he’d seen a ghost. Race had been curled up in his chair, leaning sideways against his mother, and sat up so fast he got a little dizzy. Everyone straightened up, and the second before the doctor starting speaking felt like an eternity.

The doctor exhaled slowly. “Do you believe in miracles?”


	95. Borrowed Time

“Do you believe in miracles?”

Race let out the breath he had been holding, feeling like he was deflating. Was that a good thing? Was he saying a miracle had happened? Was Spot okay? Or was this a ‘you better fuckin hope, ‘cause there’s no chance’ sort of miracle?

“How is he?” Beth asked, getting to her feet.

“Better than we found him.” The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know how he did it. That is one tough kid.”

Race exhaled half a shaky whimper, and had to swallow thickly before he managed. “So...he’s doing okay...?”

“Not sure I’d say ‘okay’,” the doctor said, “but better than we found him.”

“Thank god...” Race murmured. Not okay, but better. Better was good. Better was not dead, and it sounded like that was about all Race could ask for.

“Are you all family?” the doctor asked.

“We are,” Julie said, gesturing to herself, Mark, and Beth as Race shook his head and said, “I’m his boy—”

He choked, clamping his mouth shut before he could finish the word, and cleared his throat quickly, praying no one had noticed. “Friend. I’m his friend.”

“Anthony was in the car, too,” Beth said. “He should get to go. I’ll wait.”

Race exhaled a desperate ‘thank you’ towards her.

She nodded. “He would want you there.”

He nodded as well, and looked back to the doctor. “Can we see him now?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll take the three of you.”

Race breathed a sigh of...well, not quite relief, and stood with Mark and Julie.

The doctor gestured for them to follow and led them down a nearby hallway. Along the way, he explained, “He’s in a medically induced coma. We’ll be monitoring him for the next few days to see if his intracranial pressure goes down.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Mark asked.

The doctor hesitated a long time. “We’ll deal with that, if it comes,” he said eventually, but the pause was an answer in itself.

“Is he gonna wake up on his own, or...?” Race asked hesitantly.

The doctor shook his head. “We’re in control. When it’s time for him to wake up, we’ll bring him out.”

Race nodded, though he wasn’t sure if that was actually comforting or not.

“He won’t be conscious or responsive,” the doctor went on, “but some patients are able to hear a little.” He stopped in front of a closed door. “Be careful with the tubes and wires. He’s hooked up to a lot.”

Race took a slow, nervous breath as the doctor opened the door, and he filed in slowly after Mark and Julie.

Julie gasped, when she saw him. “Oh god, Sean...”

Race couldn’t make much sense of it.

The thing in the bed looked to be more machine than human. There were bandages all around his head, a brace on his neck, and weird, goggle-like things covering his eyes. There were so many tubes around his nose and mouth, Race couldn’t figure out what went where. He tried to take a breath, but it turned into a sob halfway out, and he choked, clapping a hand over his mouth as tears sprang to his eyes. He should’ve waited to come in till Julie and Mark were gone. God only knew when that would be, though, and he couldn’t wait—not when Spot was living on borrowed time.

He took a shaky breath and stepped further into the room. Julie had rushed to the bedside, already crying, and Mark followed close behind her. Race couldn’t bring himself to get closer. He  _ ached _ to be closer. He wanted to hold him—even just his hand—kiss him, cry for him, pray for him, beg God to take anything,  _ anything _ , except Spot, but he couldn’t bring himself to cross the room.

It wouldn’t right itself in his mind that the broken figure in front of him was Spot—his Spot, vibrant and loud and angry and always with something to say, but now...now he was just...

Race bit his lip hard, clamping his teeth down till he tasted copper on his tongue, desperate not to cry in front of Mark and Julie.

Mark stood behind Julie and rubbed her arms comfortingly as she reached out to touch Spot’s shoulder. “Oh my god,” she whispered, looking at her son in what could only be complete and utter disbelief.

Race swallowed thickly. He’d wanted to see Spot so desperately, but god this was worse, so much worse. The parts of him he  _ could _ see were littered with cuts and bruises. His leg was elevated in a cast that went all the way up to his hip. Race pressed his hand tightly over his mouth. He was having a hard time breathing, and despite his best efforts, he could feel tears beginning to fall. It was awful. It was horrible, and terrifying, and  _ awful _ , and it was his fault.

Luckily, Mark and Julie were pretty well occupied with their own grief, so Race’s tears went unnoticed. He stifled a whimper, backing himself up towards the corner, as if he could hide or shelter himself from the terrible reality of the situation. This was real. This was happening. And there was no knowing when or how it would end.

* * *

Despite his parents trying to reason with him, once Race was in Spot’s room, he absolutely refused to leave. There was no hard and fast three-visitors-per-room rule, so everyone else could come and go as they pleased, just with him in the corner. Eventually, reluctantly, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins went home to feed Lizzie and get some sleep, but not before Mr. Higgins briefly returned to provide Race with a blanket and pillow.

Julie and Mark seemed too distracted to be overly concerned with his presence, and he was perfectly happy—well, not  _ happy _ —to just sit quietly in one of the stiff, sticky sort of plastic chairs in the room. He alternated between praying and half falling asleep. There was a clock on the little table by the hospital bed, but he couldn’t see the face of it from where he was, so he had no idea how much time had passed.

At some point early in the morning, Julie and Mark begrudgingly decided to take their things to Beth’s house and get some rest, at the doctor’s assurance that nothing was likely to change in the next few hours, and he would call them if anything did.

“You’re staying?” Julie asked Race. It even sounded like there was a hint of hope in her voice.

Race nodded. “Yeah.”

“Thank you,” she whimpered, and she headed out the door with Mark in tow. The woman looked like she was practically sleepwalking, though Race probably didn’t look any better.

Once the door shut after them, Race waited another minute in his chair to make sure they didn’t come back, and then got up. He took a slow breath and moved closer, coming to sit in the chair right next to the bed, where Julie had been. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Race reached out to take Spot’s hand.

“Hey, baby,” he said quietly, and then he was crying again. There were too many emotions swirling around in his head and aching in his chest. He was sad, of course, and horrified to see Spot this way, sick with guilt, nearly paralyzed with fear that Spot wouldn’t make it. He was also relieved—so,  _ so _ relieved to see him and touch him, even if he couldn’t respond. Fuck, Race couldn’t even see his face, but it was him. Race knew his hands, the feel of his skin. It was his Spot.

“I’m sorry,” Race whimpered, moving so he held Spot’s hand in both of his. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He broke off into a little sob. That was stupid. Of course he didn’t mean to crash the car and nearly kill them both. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he promised, carefully lifting Spot’s hand and pressing a tear soaked kiss to his knuckles. “I swear to God you are. You  _ have _ to be. You’re gonna be okay, and I’m gonna be right here. I won’t leave your side. I won’t let you be alone.”

Now that he’d started talking, he felt like he couldn’t stop—half to Spot, and hoping to God he could hear him, half talking to himself and praying, murmuring promises that Spot wouldn’t be alone and he would take care of him. He’d be there, no matter what. He’d break in through the window, if they tried to kick him out. He owed Spot that much. Fuck, he owed him so much more than that.

He tried to remember the last thing Spot had said, and he shuddered when he remembered that frantic shout of ‘ _ Anthony _ ’, seconds before they crashed. Spot had seen the whole thing coming. He’d been watching, completely conscious and lucid, as Race froze and drove them straight into two other cars. He must have been terrified.

“I’m sorry,” Race whimpered again, still holding Spot’s hand to his lips. “It’ll never happen again. Never. I’m so sorry.”

It  _ would _ never happen again. It would never happen again, because Race was never driving a car again in his life, but it would never happen again, nonetheless.

He lost track of time, sitting there, holding Spot’s hand, murmuring apologies and how he loved him and missed him. It didn’t seem like very long at all before a nurse came in to check all his monitors and change some of his bandages.

“You may want to step outside for this,” he said. “If you need to get a snack or go to the bathroom, now would be a good time.”

Race shook his head. “I’ll stay.” He remembered—although somewhat hazily, since he was so young—when he was the one in the hospital bed, more bandage than person, scared, broken, alone. He wasn’t about to let Spot be alone through that. Not for a minute.

The nurse looked a little unsure, but nodded anyway. “Okay. Can you take a step back for me?”

Race nodded and let go of Spot’s hand. “I’m not leaving,” he assured him quietly, before scooting the chair back to give the nurse room. “I’m right here.”

The nurse carefully cut through the layers of bandage that surrounded Spot’s head and removed them, and...oh, that’s why he’d wanted Race to leave the room. The side of Spot’s head was swollen and misshapen, a collection of colors that were decidedly not his skin tone, and bloody overtop the incision from the surgery.

Race put a hand over his mouth, and tears sprang to his eyes. “Oh no...” he murmured quietly.

The nurse looked back at him. “Are you sure you don’t need to step out for a second?”

“Is he in pain?” Race asked, ignoring his question.

“No,” the nurse assured him, “he’s not feeling anything, right now.”

Race took a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay...”

The nurse carefully removed the goggle-like things from Spot’s eyes, and Race let out an involuntary whimper as he saw his face—bruised and swollen and cut up, but still undeniably Spot, his poor, wonderful,  _ beautiful _ , broken boy.

The nurse placed a hand on Spot’s forehead and used his thumb to gently lift his eyelid. He shined a light into his eye, then the other.

Race watched quietly for a while, and then asked, “So he can’t feel anything… Can he hear me?”

“Possibly.” The nurse put his light away and began re-wrapping Spot’s head in new bandages.

“Okay...” Race said again. He  _ hoped _ Spot could hear him, at least a bit. Even if he couldn’t, Race was still going to talk to him, still going to try.

The nurse finished replacing the bandage, then took a stethoscope out of the pocket of his scrubs and listened to his lungs.

“How’s he looking?” Race asked, fidgeting anxiously with the hair behind his ear.

“About the same.”

“I guess that’s better than worse...”

The nurse offered him a small smile. “Let us know if anything changes, okay?”

Race nodded. “For sure. Thank you.”

Once the nurse had left the room, Race resumed his post next to Spot, immediately taking his hand and pressing it to his lips again. Seeing him,  _ properly _ seeing him, had brought on a whole new wave of guilt and misery—and some relief as well—and he started to cry again. “Jesus, Spot, I’m  _ so _ sorry.”

He stayed there for the next few hours, holding Spot’s hand, petting his arm, his shoulder, his cheek—everything he could reach that wasn’t covered in bandages, a cast, or hooked up to a machine. A lot of the time he talked to him, just about whatever he could think of, and when he ran out of things to say—which took a  _ long _ time. Come on, it’s Race. If there’s one thing he can do, it’s talk—he started to sing that old Italian lullaby again, repeating the verses till they didn’t really sound like words anymore. By then, he’d thought of more things to say, so he started talking again.

“Al said someone spray painted over your name on the old rubber factory. Now it just says ‘lon sucks’. I want to redo it, and get it marked as an official art installation. Like a memorial.” He paused, frowning. “Would it be a memorial, if you’re not dead? Alive people can have memorials, can’t they?”

As with every question he’d asked that morning, he was answered only by the rhythmic beeping of Spot’s heart monitor. Annoying though it was, it was a comforting reminder that Spot was alive.

Race sighed, slumping back in the chair as far as he could without letting go of Spot’s hand. “I hate this. I hate all of this. I hate that I’m here. I hate that  _ you’re _ here. I hate that they can’t help you more. I hate that this happened. I hate that it’s my fault.” He sighed again. “...I just want us to go home.”

In the background, the door opened, but Race was far too medicated and sleep-deprived to think much about it. He glanced up, wondering if it was the nurse coming back for another check-in.

It  _ was _ a nurse, technically, but not one coming back for another check-in. Beth. It was Beth. She wasn’t in nurse clothes, though.

Scrubs. They’re called scrubs.

“Oh shit, hey, Beth,” Race greeted dumbly.

“Hey, Anthony.” She sat down on the other side of Spot’s bed. “You look exhausted. Have you slept?”

“Uh, a little, sort of.” He’d drifted off a bit for a few moments here or there, but not enough to be considered properly sleeping.

“You need to sleep, kid,” Beth said. “Give your body time to heal.”

“I don’t wanna leave Spot...”

She sighed. “We could at least make you a spot on the floor or something.”

“Dad brought me a blanket and pillow,” he said, gesturing to the little nest that had been abandoned in the corner chair.

Beth cringed at it. “That can’t be good to sleep on, especially with a freshly relocated shoulder.”

“I’ve mostly been over here, since Mark and Julie left.” He half shrugged, only moving the uninjured shoulder.

“Sean wouldn’t want you to run yourself into the ground, like this,” Beth said. “He’d tell you to take care of yourself.”

_ Take care of yourself, gorgeous _ . He could almost hear it in Spot’s voice.

“I guess I could put the two chairs together, to stretch out a bit...” he conceded.

“I don’t want you straining your shoulder any more,” Beth said. “I’ll see if I can get anything to make you a little pad.”

“Thanks, Beth.”

“It’s a nurse thing.” She leaned in and kissed Spot’s cheek as she stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

Race nodded. Once she left, he leaned forward, laying his crossed arms on the bed by Spot and going to lay his head down on his arms, but that strained his shoulder painfully, and he grimaced, sitting back up.

“I wish I could sleep with you,” he said to Spot. “Not, like, in the sex way, I mean. Though, I mean, yes,  _ also _ in the sex way, always, but I’m not super worried about that right now.” He sighed, reaching out to gently run his hand over Spot’s arm—wherever he could touch skin, and not tubes or monitors or whatever. “I just want to lay down with you ‘n cuddle ‘n whatever.”

More than anything, he just wanted this to be over—or more for it to have never happened in the first place, because when it  _ was _ over, Spot might be gone, or if not gone, very possibly damaged beyond repair and beyond recovery, physically, psychologically, or both. He could be ruined, and not in a ‘boo hoo disabled people aren’t real people’, bullshit sort of way, but in a ‘not the same person anymore’ sort of way. That could happen, with severe enough brain damage. Race just wanted Spot back, wanted Spot normal, wanted Spot to be okay again. He thanked God that  _ he _ was relatively okay, all things considered, but honestly, he would’ve traded places with Spot in a heartbeat. Of course, he wasn’t at all thinking about the potential—and likely—psychological ramifications of a second severe, life-imperiling car accident, and the accompanying hospital stay that would undoubtedly pair  _ terribly _ with his already existing, nigh-phobic hospital-related anxiety and the PTSD.

But he wasn’t thinking about it. So that’s hardly the point.

He was thinking about Spot, who, twenty-four-hours earlier, was holding Race’s hand in the hallway at school, giving him a quick kiss goodbye as they headed to their classes. Spot, who was supposed to be graduating from high school in less than two months. Spot, who just wanted to escape, but now he was here. Trapped—for god only knew how much longer—because of Race.

“We’re gonna make it out of here baby,” Race promised as tears began to push behind his eyes yet again. “Out of this hospital, this town, we’re gonna make it. Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do, I’m there. We’re gonna make it.”

Mercifully, before he managed to start crying in earnest again, he heard the door open and wiped quickly at his eyes.

Beth shuffled into the room with an arm full of blankets and a couple more pillows and dumped them on the floor in the corner by Race’s nest. “It won’t be a bed, but it’ll be better than the hard floor,” she said.

“Thanks, Beth,” he said for what felt like the fortieth time that night—morning? Both.

She walked over and knelt down next to his chair. “Anthony, it’s okay if you want to stay, but if you’re staying for him...” She shook her head. “He’s not going to wake up on his own. We’re going to know ahead of time, and we’re going to keep you in the loop, okay?”

“I’m not leaving him alone,” Race insisted.

“Would you feel better if I promised I’d stay with him until his parents get back?”

Race tried not to grimace at that. It wasn’t that he thought they would do anything to actively hurt him in this situation, but at this point, even just being around them had to be harmful. “I want to stay,” he said.

“Okay,” Beth conceded. “Get some rest, though. Have you eaten?”

“I ate a bit before Spot got out of surgery. I’m not really hungry now.”

Beth frowned like she wanted to argue, but sighed instead. “Why don’t you take a nap?”

“Okay… You’ll wake me up if something changes?”

“Of course.”

“Okay...” he said again, and he went over to arrange his nest in the corner. Beth was right, it  _ definitely _ wasn’t a bed, but at least he wasn’t directly on the gross, cold, hospital floor.

Once he got it relatively comfortable, he laid down and closed his eyes, listening to Spot’s heart monitor as he tried to fall asleep.


	96. Bad News

Do they still call him ‘Spot’?”

“Yeah, most everyone does,” Race confirmed, still looking at the picture on Julie’s phone. It was Spot on his first day of first grade, all smiley and skinny, but still unmistakably himself. He was in a little Eagles T-shirt and denim shorts, and he was missing one of his front teeth. “He’s adorable,” Race told her, handing her phone back.

Not too long after Julie and Mark returned, Beth had gone back downstairs to work, and Mark had gone to get food, leaving Race and Julie. It had been suffocatingly awkward at first, until they started talking about Spot.

“School wasn’t good for him,” Julie said, scrolling through more pictures. “He always got into trouble, and I didn’t know why. He’d always been...perfect...”

Race tried not to cringe. “Well, nothing’s ever perfect.”

“I know that, now.” Julie smiled at another picture, then handed her phone back to Race. It was a young Beth, probably in her teens, holding a sleeping baby Spot, with his cheek smushed against her shoulder.

Race laughed. “Oh my god, he’s so squishy looking.”

“He was pretty squishy!” Julie confirmed, reaching over and swiping to another photo of Beth holding him. “Beth used to come over after school and keep an eye on him while she did her homework, so I could eat a meal or take a shower.” She chuckled. “I felt  _ horrible _ . She was seventeen, she needed to focus on school, but oh, she  _ loved him _ . She  _ loved _ being an aunt. She just wanted to hold him all the time.”

“That musta been nice,” Race said. “I’ve never really wanted kids of my own, but one of my buddies is having a kid soon, and I’m kinda excited to mess with her, be an honorary uncle or whatever, so...” He shrugged.

“That’s nice,” Julie said, and despite that being the most generic reply possible, she sounded genuine. She took her phone back and kept scrolling.

“How old were you when you had Spot?” Race asked.

“Twenty-seven.” She passed him her phone again, having selected a more recent photo of Spot playing football. He looked about fourteen.

Race smiled at the picture. “Was he any good? At football, I mean.”

Julie nodded. “ _ Very _ good. He’s...small, you know, so he had to be better than everyone.”

Race snickered. “Yeah, he’s pretty competitive.”

“Mark wanted him to go for a scholarship,” she sighed. “To be honest, though, I was a little glad he decided to stop. It’s such a violent sport. He kept—” Her voice caught in her throat. “He kept hitting his head. The doctors were worried...”

Race winced. “Yeah, it’s like, number one for most concussions or whatever.”

She nodded and swiped to another picture. This one was of Spot and Mark, presumably after a game. Spot was still in his uniform, holding his helmet, and Mark had his arm around Spot’s shoulders. Looking at it, you would never know…

Race felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. “So, when did Mark, uh, join the family, as it were?”  _ How long has he been hurting my boy? _

“We met when Sean was two, married when he was three.”

“Was his dad ever in the picture?”

Julie frowned deeply. “Mark is his dad in every way that matters.”

“Sorry,” Race amended quickly, “I just— I lost my dad when I was little. I’m adopted. I was just wondering...” He trailed off awkwardly, not really sure how to apologize to or empathize with someone who was partially at fault for so much of Spot’s pain, and so blind to it.

“I see.” Julie seemed to soften a little. “My ex-husband, Sean’s biological father—he was only around for a few months, after Sean was born.”

“Gotcha,” Race said. He remembered him and Spot talking about Spot’s father briefly—Spot didn’t remember him, so Race supposed it didn’t really matter all that much one way or another.

It was hard to talk to Julie. There wasn’t really anything to talk about, other than Spot, and Spot was hard to talk about without getting into how absolutely and wildly gay Race was for him or how much Race hated Mark for hurting him and Julie for standing by and letting it happen. The bit that was really killer was it seemed that Julie really did, really and truly, love Spot. He was her sweet baby boy, but somehow, things had gotten so twisted. Maybe she thought Mark was right and was ‘doing what’s best for the boy’. Maybe she just refused to see what was happening at all. There were lots of possibilities, and Race didn’t know enough and hadn’t seen enough to be able to make any sort of proper judgement on it, beyond that he hated her for it, and Mark even more so. It was a wonder Race had managed to even look at him without trying to pull his throat out.

Race just wanted Spot to be okay, and nothing about the current situation was anything like Spot being okay—the accident, the hospital, and now Mark being there. None of it was okay, but here they were. Here they were, and it was Race’s fault, so now he had to bear it and just pray to God that Spot could wake up, so this could be over and he could be okay again.

* * *

Within the hour, Race realized he never should have complained about having to converse with Julie.

“So, Anthony,” Mark began casually, like he hadn’t spent the last fifteen years beating Race’s boyfriend, “you’re a senior, too?”

“Yup,” Race said, popping the ‘p’. He had absolutely  _ no _ interest in talking to Mark,  _ especially _ about the mundane pleasantries of normal life.

Of course, Mark kept running his stupid mouth. “You got a plan for college?”

“Uhh, not anything concrete yet. Probably gonna take a gap year before I head into it.”

He nodded. “That seems to be pretty common, these days.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Race shrugged, seriously not wanting to get into a proper conversation with this man, but seeing no escape.

“You play any sports or anything?”

He took a breath, trying and failing to resist being a self-sabotaging little shit. “Nope, none of that sissy ball-touching stuff for me. I’m a dancer.”

Mark’s eyebrows shot up. “A dancer?”

“Yep,” Race confirmed, nodding smugly. “I’m a ballet boy. Well,” he shrugged, still grinning, “a bit of everything, really.”

“How does a guy get into something like dance?” Mark asked, sounding friendly enough, but Race knew he was being judged.

“Oh, plenty of guys are into it,” he replied, not at all meaning dance. “It’s just like liking anything else.”

“That’s interesting,” Mark said. “I’ve never known any guys who were into dance.”

“Maybe they were, and you just didn’t know,” Race suggested, shrugging. “It’s not all that uncommon.”

“Maybe so.”

Race felt oddly victorious, even though neither of them had really said anything particularly important—after all, they were just talking about  _ dancing _ . “Who knows,” he ventured, at this point very much viciously hoping that Mark got his veiled meaning. “Maybe even you’d like it, if you tried.”

Mark’s polite smile faltered for a split second. “Oh, I don’t know about that...”

Race shrugged again. “I don’t blame you for being intimidated. It can be pretty hard. Not everyone can take it.”

Mark started to answer, and Race was almost disappointed when he was interrupted by Julie returning from the bathroom. “Anything?” she asked.

Mark shook his head.

“Nope, no change,” Race said.

Julie sighed and sat down next to Mark. He took her hand, doing just such a good impression of a caring husband for someone who was literally Satan.

“So,” Race began, “how will the doctor know when it’s time to wake him up?”

“I don’t know...” Julie said blankly, looking at Spot.

“It’s the pressure in his head, right?” Mark asked, more to Julie than to Race. “They’re waiting for it to go down?”

Julie nodded slowly.

“How long do you think that’ll take?” Race asked miserably.

“The doctor said it could be a few days.”

“I wish it was now...” he said quietly.

“Me, too.”

It wasn’t fair. There was no knowing when things were gonna be okay again, no knowing how long Spot was gonna be stuck like this, and it was all just this awful limbo, and what happened if it  _ didn’t _ get better? How long could this go on before the doctors decided enough was enough? How long before  _ Julie and Mark _ decided it was enough?

He was jolted out of his thoughts by a knock on the door, and a nurse stepped in. “Hey, can I talk to you all for a minute?”

“Sure,” Julie said, turning towards the door. “What’s going on?”

“Well...” The nurse sighed, closing the door behind her and leaning back against it. That didn’t sound like a good ‘well’. Race felt dread start to prickle in his chest, and he swallowed thickly. “It’s about the virus,” the nurse said. “The whole state is going on lockdown, and the hospital is temporarily changing its visitor policy.”

Mark frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Since Sean’s not conscious, Mrs. Young, you’ll be allowed to stay, because you’re next of kin, and you need to make decisions for him. Everyone else—”

“You’re asking us to leave?” Mark asked, sounding distinctly less than pleased.

The nurse nodded. “I’m afraid I have to.”

“This is nonsense,” he scoffed.

For his part, Race was grateful that this bad news was ‘leave’ instead of ‘time to let Spot die’, but he didn’t want to leave. He  _ couldn’t leave _ . Not without Spot.

“No one’s happy about it,” the nurse said, “but it’s not our decision—”

Mark continued to protest. “He’s my son, and he could very well be dying! You expect me to leave him and my wife—”

“Sir, I know this is a terrible situation, and I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go.”

“This is absolutely unacceptable.”

Race didn’t know what to say, and even if he did, he certainly wasn’t about to try to interrupt Mark. He didn’t want to leave Spot. Would he even be allowed to come back? What if they didn’t let him come back, and Spot got worse, and this was the last time Race ever saw him? At that thought, he felt tears well up in his eyes, and he quickly turned away from the commotion in the room, towards Spot. Partially to try and keep Mark from seeing the crying, but mostly because he wanted to keep on looking at Spot for as long as he could.

“We’ll give you a couple hours to make arrangements,” Race heard the nurse say.

“I want to talk to someone in charge,” Mark demanded.

Race heard Julie say something as well, but it was much quieter and mostly lost in Mark’s blustering. Race wasn’t paying too close attention anyway, much too distracted by how awful this was and the even more awful possibilities of what could come.

What if he never saw Spot again? What if he never got to touch him again or tell him he loved him? What if this was it, and his only chance at goodbye was ruined by Mark and Julie being there?

He had to call his parents. They would have to pick him up. The thought of being in a car again made him sick to his stomach, but there was no alternative. They wouldn’t let him stay.

* * *

“My parents will be here in, like, ten minutes,” Race mumbled unhappily.

Beth, who had come up to the ICU after getting the news, sighed gently. “I’m sorry, Anthony.”

He shrugged miserably. “What can ya do?”

She patted his shoulder, then made her way over to Julie and Mark. “We should give him a minute,” she said quietly. Mark began to argue, but she cut him off. “That’s Sean’s best friend, and it might be it for him.”

Julie nodded in agreement, and Mark sighed. “Fine.”

Beth cast one more wan smile back at Race before ushering them out. “We’ll go down to the cafeteria to get some dinner, okay?” She clearly meant ‘we’ll be well out of earshot’.

“Okay. Thanks, Beth,” he said, and truly,  _ truly _ meant it.

“Of course, Anthony. Anything you need.”

Other than the whole kicking Spot out bit, Beth was pretty much the greatest, and Race gave her the closest thing he could to a smile as she closed the door. He waited for a second to make sure they weren’t gonna come back in for some reason, and then launched himself over towards Spot as he burst into tears.

“This is fucking insane,” he whimpered, taking Spot’s hand in both of his and pressing his knuckles to his lips. “I dunno if you heard what the nurse said or Mark’s tantrum; they’re making everyone but your mom leave, the whole state is going into lockdown, ‘cause COVID. I dunno what’s gonna happen, or if I’ll be able to come back.” His voice cracked, and he sniffled. “I’m so sorry Spot, I promised I wouldn’t leave, I don’t  _ want _ to leave, not without you.”

All he wanted to do was hold him in his arms and never let go, but there were too many things hooked up to him, and Race was afraid he might dislodge something.

“I love you, Sean,” he whimpered around his tears. “I love you so fucking much. I’m so sorry.”


	97. Sadnest 2: Electric Boogaloo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race goes home from the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are going to be very intense. I’ve added tags for suicidal thoughts and behavior. Major character death is still possible, though I will neither confirm nor deny. Take care of yourselves!

Mr. Higgins placed a hand on Race’s shoulder as they made their way out to the car. “Where do you want to sit, Bud?”

Race could feel himself trembling a bit as he shrugged. He didn’t  _ want _ to sit in the car at all, but it was a necessary evil. “Front, I guess.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Higgins asked, frowning. “Sweetie, if you have a panic attack and try to get out, we may need you in the back...”

Race stifled a whimper. “I guess that’s fair...”

“I can sit back there with you,” Mr. Higgins suggested.

Race nodded. “Yes please.”

They climbed into the car, Mrs. Higgins in the driver’s seat, Race and Mr. Higgins in the back.

“Are the child locks on?” Mr. Higgins asked softly, and Mrs. Higgins nodded.

Race took a slow, shaky breath. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like any of this. —being in the car, being in the back, being locked in. Not good, not good, not good.

He took another breath, attempting to buckle himself in, but he was shaking so hard he couldn’t get the buckle to connect.

“Here you go, Bud.” Mr. Higgins took it from him and buckled it.

“Thanks dad.” He answered shakily. He felt silly and useless and  _ scared _ , and they hadn’t even started moving yet.

“You ready to go?” his mom asked.

He definitely wasn’t, but he nodded anyway.

“Okay, here we go.” She put the car in gear and started out of the parking lot.

Race whimpered involuntarily as they bumped slightly on the small incline out of the parking lot and onto the road. It was fine. He was fine. This was fine. Just riding in the car, like a normal person. He could do this. He didn’t even have to ‘do’ anything, just sit there. Sit there helpless and useless and powerless.

His dad had an arm around him, and he squeezed slightly. “Okay?”

“Not really,” Race replied, tightly gripping the fabric at the edge of the seat. He just wanted to be done and home. He supposed one nice thing about the state going into lockdown was that he wouldn’t have to worry about driving anywhere after this for a while.

As they neared an intersection, Race felt panic boil up suddenly in his chest, and he recoiled as best as the back of the seat would allow, shaking his head. “No no no no—”

“It’s okay, Tony,” his father assured him as his mother slowed the car down smoothly to a stop.

He whimpered, breathing hard now. “I want out.”

Unfortunately, they were in the left lane, and there was no way for Mrs. Higgins to pull over without pulling into the middle of cross traffic.

“Wait until we get through this light, Tony,” she said.

“No no no, I need out,” he insisted as tears began to fall. “I need out  _ now _ .”

Not thinking—either about the door being locked, or how disastrous it would be if it wasn’t—he pulled at the door handle, and he sobbed when it didn’t do anything.

“Tony.” His dad reached out to him, wrapped him in his arms, and carded his fingers through his hair. “It’s alright, Tony. You’re safe.”

Race curled into his arms, overcome with terror and tears. He was stuck. He couldn’t get out, couldn’t stop the car, couldn’t do anything. All that had happened was proximity to busy intersection, but it felt like the world was ending.

The car started moving again, and Race cried harder. It felt like his ribcage was going to crack inwards, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he was just scared.

A few moments later, the car stopped again, and his mother’s voice broke through the fog. “Tony, sweetie?”

He tried to answer, but only managed another sob.

“Look at me,” his father said, gently but firmly, but Race couldn’t convince himself to uncurl. “Do you need to get out for a second?”

Still curled up in a miserable, scared little ball, Race nodded. He heard the car door open, and his parents guided him out onto the sidewalk. It was easier to breathe, once he got out on the sidewalk, but he’d been hyperventilating, so he felt light headed, and his legs were wobbly enough that he was afraid he might fall down.

“I’m gonna...” Race said vaguely, and he sat down on the sidewalk. His parents sat on either side of him, and they both put their arms around him. He pulled his knees up to his chest, gasping and hiccuping on tears as his breath tried to catch back up to normal. The pressure in his chest had lessened enough that he wasn’t afraid he was dying anymore, but it still hurt.

His mother pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “It’s okay to be scared, baby.”

“I’m never driving again,” he vowed, once his breathing had evened out enough that he could talk.

“That’s okay. Plenty of people don’t drive.”

“I’ll just move to the city where I can walk everywhere.”

“You can certainly do that,” Mr. Higgins agreed.

“I  _ hate _ this,” Race whimpered. He’d already had enough issues with car-related panic and PTSD, and now it was like he was back to square one.

“We’ll just get you home, and then you won’t have to go anywhere else for a while,” Mrs. Higgins said.

Race stifled another whimper, but nodded. He really didn’t want to get back in the car—though sitting on the sidewalk in the middle of March wasn’t really a viable alternative.

“Whenever you’re ready, Bud,” Mr. Higgins said.

Race nodded and got shakily to his feet. It took him a couple seconds to convince himself to actually climb into the car, and started crying again almost as soon as they started moving. Mr Higgins hugged him again.

“I’m sorry,” Race managed around his tears, leaning into Mr. Higgins arms gratefully. “This is so stupid.” It was stupid, and  _ so _ , so unfair. He just wanted to be a regular guy, with a regular boyfriend.

Spot had been so much more than ‘regular’, though; he was smart and funny and loving and  _ perfect _ , but now...forget now, what about later? If he did wake up, would he be the same? Would he even remember Race? Would he remember...anything?

“It’s not stupid,” Mr. Higgins said. “You were in a bad wreck yesterday. Anyone would be afraid.”

Jesus Christ, was it really only yesterday? It already felt like it had been so long since things were okay.

“I miss Spot,” Race whimpered.

“I know, Bud.”

“What if they don’t let me go back to the hospital to visit him?” Race asked, giving voice to the panic that had been circling his head since he found out about lockdown. “What if things get worse, and he— and he— and he—” He hiccuped on more tears, unable to actually say ‘what if he dies’. “What if I don’t get to say goodbye?” he finally sobbed.

His parents met each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but neither of them answered.

“Or what if he’s getting better, and he wakes up, and I’m not there? I  _ promised _ I was gonna be there!”

“He’ll understand why you can’t be,” Mrs. Higgins said.

“What if he’s scared?” Race whimpered. Jesus Christ he must have been so scared. “And his  _ parents _ are there.”

“I know, sweetie, but there’s nothing we can do.”

“He would want me there, not them,” he sniffled. “We should be able to do something.”

“I know.”

At least focusing on Spot was keeping him distracted from the car. “Do you think they’ll let me come back, if he wakes up and asks for me?”

Mrs. Higgins paused. “Now, that I don’t know.”

“I hope so...” Race mumbled, then shut his eyes tight and grimaced as the car hit a small bump in the road. He appreciated that Mrs. Higgins didn’t try to turn the radio on—less noise was preferable when he was anxious, especially in the car—and they kept him talking the rest of the way home, no doubt in an effort to distract him. They steered the conversation into more harmless things, but all he could think about was Spot, and he wondered if Spot was thinking about him. Was Spot thinking about anything? If he could possibly hear, surely he could think, right?

Race wondered what it would be like, not thinking. Probably kind of nice...restful. Not worrying, not being afraid, just...quiet.

Then, suddenly, they were pulling up the driveway and into the garage. Race breathed a sigh of relief.

“Did you eat dinner at the hospital,” Mrs. Higgins asked, getting out of the car, “or are you hungry?”

“I guess I could eat.” Race shrugged and tried to get out of the car, but the child locks were still on, so the interior handle was useless.

His mother quickly opened the door from the outside. “Come on; I went to Whole Foods this morning and got expensive pasta.”

“Ooh, I love expensive pasta,” Race enthused. Really, he was mostly just tired. He’d barely slept, but even beyond that he just...didn’t want to be awake.

“It’s  _ guh-notchy _ ,” his father clarified, poking Race in the side.

Race snorted. “Run that by me again?”

“ _ Guh-notchy _ .”

He nodded. “Sounded much better that time.”

“It’s  _ gnocchi _ , Joel,” Mrs. Higgins called. 

“I know that!” Mr. Higgins called back. “I’m bugging our Italian son! Goodness, Rachel.”

Race smiled. He knew his dad was just trying to make him laugh, and he appreciated it, of course, but he just didn’t have the energy to be properly amused.

Mr. Higgins smiled back. “Come on. We’ll get you some  _ guh-notchy _ , and then you can rest, okay?”

“Sounds good,” Race confirmed.

* * *

Going into Spot’s room after dinner to take care of Lizzie was...sobering, Race supposed. It felt numb, in a way—like walking into a little bubble of the not-so-distant past, like Spot was going to get home from school and toss his backpack on the floor by the door and let Lizzie hop on his shoulder, like everything was normal.

But it wasn’t.

Spot wasn’t there. Spot  _ wouldn’t _ be there. Race prayed to God that a miracle would happen and everything would be okay again, but it would take just that—a real and true miracle. He wanted to believe that could happen. He had been a miracle boy; why couldn’t Spot be? But Race had gotten crunched up in a car seat, not slammed the side of his head into the dashboard at fifty miles per hour.

As he went up to Lizzie’s cage, Race quietly promised himself he wouldn’t cry, even though he knew he definitely would. “Hey, Lizzie,” he said softly, ignoring how his voice was already breaking.

She hopped to the front of her cage and twittered, tilting her head to look up at him.

“No Spot today, just me, sorry,” Race said as he unlatched the door and opened it. “I’m gonna feed you,” he explained, reaching into the cage to pour a scoop of feed into her bowl. “Don’t bite me.”

She didn’t bite him, but she did hop onto his hand and grip with her little toes, flapping her wings to keep her balance. He tensed a bit and held very still while she settled. He and Lizzie hadn’t ever really gotten along, after all.

Once she stopped flapping, he carefully pulled his hand out of the cage, bringing her with him. He was glad she’d climbed onto him on her own, rather than him having to catch her or coax her out. He wanted to have a proper, face to face chat with her. Once he got her out, he went over to sit down, cross legged, on Spot’s bed—or was it the guest bed again, now?

Lizzie tilted her head again, like she was sizing him up, or perhaps confused that he was  _ him _ instead of Spot.

“So...” Race cleared his throat. “I don’t think I ever said sorry about the whole, stuffing you in a locker thing, but I guess that turned out to be a good thing, ‘cause it landed you with Spot, right?”

She chirped and hopped a little bit farther up his arm. Race eyed her suspiciously. “Okay, no biting. My ears aren’t Lizzie snacks.”

She tilted her head again, and Race sighed. He had to tell her. He wasn’t really sure why it was so important—she was a dumb bird, she wasn’t gonna understand what he was saying, or where Spot was, or why he wasn’t coming back—but it was. He had to at least try.

“So...it might be just us now, Lizzie. Spot got hurt, and we don’t—” His voice cracked, and tears welled up in his eyes. “We don’t know if he’s gonna get better. He might not come home.” The sentence pitched higher and higher as he tried desperately to hold his composure, but the tears started to fall anyway.

She deserved to know. Spot was her daddy, for God’s sake. She deserved to know why her daddy wasn’t coming home. Had she noticed he was gone? Did she miss him? Was she wondering where he was or why he wasn’t there?

“We got in a car crash,” Race explained weakly as he cried. “It’s my fault. There was an accident in front of us, and I just froze and ran us right into it.” He took a wavering breath. “Spot’s air bag didn’t go off, and they couldn’t find a pulse—” He broke off in a sob.

Lizzie twittered some more, then flew up to Race’s shoulder. She nudged at his face with her beak, but didn’t bite. Race sobbed again, burying his face in his hands, careful not to accidentally hit her. “I don’t know what to do. If he doesn’t get better...or if he does, but he’s not the same...Jesus Christ, what am I gonna do?”

For a minute he just cried, overcome with awful, aching sobs. Lizzie somehow remained on his shoulder the entire time, nuzzling and nibbling lightly at his fingers.

Eventually, Race managed a weak, tear soaked laugh. “Hey, now we have more in common than just being loud and loving Spot. We both got dead daddies.”

She looked up at him, and while of course she wasn’t, Race felt like she was asking what he meant by that.

“Mine died in a car crash when I was really little. And now yours—” He whimpered. “Well, he’s not dead yet, I don’t think, but he’s awful close.”

She didn’t understand. How could he make her understand?

“I don’t think he’s coming home, Lizzie,” Race sobbed. Saying it out loud felt so utterly unbearable. It was real. This was happening. And there was nothing he could do to make it better, or undo it. “I just want him back,” he whimpered.

After a bit longer, sitting there, crying because he couldn’t talk to a bird—and so, so much more—Race quieted and got up to put Lizzie back in her cage.

“We can hang out more some other time, when I’m not wishing I was the one dying,” Race mumbled.

He left the room and paused in the hallway. He didn’t want to be alone, so he headed for the living room instead of the stairs. His parents were on the couch, having a hushed conversation, undoubtedly about him—how he was doing, what to do with him. They stopped when he came into the room, but he didn’t have the energy to care that he was interrupting. Instead he just climbed into the armchair and curled up.

“Sweetie...” Mrs. Higgins held a hand out to him.

Race hummed in acknowledgement, and reached out to take her hand.

“It’s only been a day, Bud,” Mr. Higgins said. “A lot can change. He could get better.”

Race sighed shakily. “I know.”

It had only been a day. The longest day of Race’s life, sure, but still only a day. He hoped to God things would be better tomorrow, but somehow, he doubted it.

“Why don’t you go to bed and get a good night’s sleep, hm?” Mrs. Higgins suggested, rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb.

“Can I...sleep in with you guys, tonight?” he asked, too sad and tired to feel silly or childish. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course you can, baby.”

“Thanks, Momma.”

Mr. Higgins stood up off the couch. “Let’s all get ready, and we’ll  _ all _ get a good night’s sleep, alright?”

* * *

Race very much did not get a good night’s sleep. After teeth were brushed, pajamas put on, lights turned out, and good nights said, the house got quiet, and Race’s head got that much louder. It wasn’t even necessarily thoughts; it was just loneliness—very specific, targeted loneliness. He hadn’t wanted to be alone, but much more than that, he didn’t want to be without Spot.

It was pretty clear that everyone else didn’t think Spot was going to make it, and really...Race didn’t think he was, either. He’d been trying his damndest to avoid thinking about it, but now, with nothing else to focus on, it was getting harder and harder to tune out. After another few minutes, Race rolled over and carefully crawled out of bed—moving down towards the bottom, rather than across to the side, to avoid climbing over either of his parents and waking them up. He padded quietly out into the hallway and found himself automatically heading for Spot’s room. Once there, he stood for a moment in the doorway, unsure what exactly he had hoped to find. Then, he crossed the room to the bed and crawled between the sheets, burying his face in the pillow and bursting into tears. The pillowcase smelled like laundry detergent, but it also smelled a little like Spot, and that made Race cry harder. He breathed deeply, desperate for any semblance of closeness he could get, and quickly decided the pillow wasn’t enough. He got out of bed and went over to the laundry hamper next to the wardrobe, lifting it to dump its contents onto the bed before climbing back under the covers, and pulling Spot’s laundry closer to make a nest around him. He picked a shirt at random and hugged it to his chest, burying his face in it and breathing in Spot’s smell. Although he was dreading the nightmares that would surely come with sleep, it wasn’t long before Race had cried himself to the point of exhaustion. He couldn’t count on another miracle. His wonderful boy was gone, and he had to start getting used to it. He had to find a way to move on.


	98. Hard Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two (2) video calls and one (1) stressed out boy.

There was no church on Sunday, which was weird. Of course, with a new plague arisen and the world locking down,  _ everything _ was weird. People were going nuts—stocking up on food and toilet paper like it was the damn apocalypse, and maybe it was. Of course, to Race, it didn’t really matter. His world was ending, so he supposed it was sort of serendipitous that everyone else’s was, too.

It was around noon, and he was sitting at the kitchen counter stirring a bowl of soggy cereal that his mom had made for him an hour ago. He hadn’t eaten any of it. He didn’t want to, and he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to keep it down, if he did.

Beth had texted him that morning, like she had promised she would. Apparently, Spot’s condition was basically the same. Race wondered how long it would be, if nothing changed, before the doctors gave up completely and just...let him go…

Race pressed his lips together tightly. There was officially no way he was going to be able to keep any food down.

“Sweetie?” his mom said gently, leaning into the kitchen. “Would you like to have a video call with Hannah? She has some time available.”

Race looked up, considering. Honestly, no, but it was probably a good idea. “Sure.”

“Do you want to use your laptop or the office computer?”

“I’ll just go to my room,” he said, sliding off his seat at the counter. “Is she available now, or...?”

Mrs. Higgins nodded. “She said she has a couple hours.”

“Cool,” replied flatly, heading for the stairs. He’d only been up for an hour, and already he just wanted to go to sleep. He sat at his desk and opened his laptop, then pulled up Skype. Hannah had given him her contact way back when they first started meeting, just in case, but he had never used it. He thought absently that maybe he should comb his hair or something—he probably looked like a mess, but he didn’t do anything about it, and went ahead and hit the ‘call’ button.

A few seconds later, Hannah appeared onscreen. She smiled. “Hi, Tony.”

“Hey, Hannah,” he replied, not even attempting a smile.

“Your mom filled me in on the past few days. How are you doing?”

“I killed my boyfriend, Hannah. How do you think I’m doing?”

“Has he passed?” she asked. “Your mom said he was still in the hospital.”

“Well, no,” Race conceded. “He’s still in a coma. His aunt texted me this morning to say he still isn’t improving.”

“I see. And you blame yourself.”

“Yeah, it’s my fault,” he replied miserably.

“It was an accident, Tony.”

Everyone kept saying that. ‘It was an accident’, as if that made it better, somehow.

“Does it matter that it was?” he asked. “It happened, and it happened because of what I did.”

“Even if that’s true,” Hannah said carefully, “do you think that train of thought is useful in any way?”

He gritted his teeth. “No, Hannah. I don’t think that thinking about how I’m responsible for my boyfriend’s death is  _ useful _ .”

She pressed her lips together and sighed. “Tony...after talking to your mother, our main concern is that, if Spot doesn’t pull through, you may not be emotionally equipped to handle it.”

It hit Race like a ton of bricks, and it felt like all the breath had just been punched out of him; his mother was talking to his therapist about preparing him to handle his boyfriend’s death. “Yeah...” He exhaled shakily. “I don’t think I’m emotionally equipped to handle it, either.”

“Above all, Tony, I’m so sorry this happened,” Hannah said. “I know there’s nothing I can say or do to make it better, but I will do everything I can to help you get through it.”

“If I’m being honest, Hannah, I’m not sure that’s doable.”

She frowned deeply. “Getting through it, you mean?”

He nodded.

“Talk to me a little about that.”

“I just...wish it was me instead of him.”

Hannah paused for a long moment before nodding. “I think that’s natural enough, but Tony, there is no trading places. Hurting yourself won’t make Spot better, it will only make you worse.”

“I know that. Do you really think I’d still be here if I thought it would?”

She raised her eyebrows, and Race couldn’t tell if she was surprised or impassive.

“The answer is ‘I wouldn’t’, obviously.”

“We’re getting a little off-track. You were saying you don’t know if you can get through this.”

“Right.” He sighed. “I don’t know if I can. How am I supposed to go on? And I know I’m a dramatic little shit, but I really mean it.”

“Tony, you are hands down, without a doubt, the most resilient person I have ever met,” Hannah said. “I can’t imagine you not going on. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, you can.”

He shook his head. “Hannah, if he’s gone, I wanna go, too.”

She paused again. “Do you intend to?”

“No,” Race answered easily, though it wasn’t altogether true. He wasn’t really sure what he intended to do or not do, but he knew that if Hannah thought he was in danger, she was going to tell someone, and he didn’t want to end up in The Refuge again. “Like you said, it wouldn’t help anything.”

Hannah didn’t look entirely convinced. Of course, she would know him better than that. “What do you need from me, right now?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know how to cope with any of what’s happening right now. I can’t even focus on school or distract myself with dance, ‘cause lockdown. I’m spiraling. I don’t know what to do.”

“As hard as it is, Tony, I would urge you not to distract yourself. You need to let yourself process everything that’s happened.”

“I don’t  _ want _ to process,” he grumbled.

“I know, but it’s important.” She went on, “I wonder, with everything going on with Spot, if you’ve let yourself process the accident itself.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Even if Spot hadn’t been injured, that accident wound have been traumatic.” She gestured at him. “You’re hurt, too. Your hand is in a cast, you’re cut and bruised, and with your PTSD, I would be concerned even if you were completely unharmed.”

“I guess,” he replied, frowning more. “I haven’t really given it much thought...I’ve been more focused on Spot.”

“I’m worried that, if you don’t work through it now, it will give you trouble later. Your mom said you had trouble in the car on the way home from the hospital”

“Yeah, we got to an intersection and I had a panic attack,” Race confirmed.

Hannah nodded. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I think that’s a natural reaction, but certainly not one we want you to have every time you get in a car.”

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna drive again,” he told her.

“That’s okay, if you decide not to.”

She nodded again. “That may be the case, and if it is, that’s okay.”

“I don’t trust myself anymore,” he explained. “Something could happen, I’d freeze again.” Race shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the threat of tears. “I don’t want anyone else dead ‘cause of me.”

“Do you think you could tell me what happened?” Hannah asked. “All your mom told me was that there was an accident, and you feel like it’s your fault.”

“I don’t  _ feel _ like it’s my fault, it  _ is _ my fault,” he insisted. “I was driving us home from school, and everything was fine. Then, the car in front of us got T-boned in the intersection, and I froze.” Tears started to fall at this point, but he ignored them. “There was  _ plenty _ of time for me to stop, but I just froze. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even try to slow down or turn or anything. I plowed us right into them.” He squeezed his eyes closed against the memory of Spot yelling at him, shaking him, spending what were effectively his last few seconds scared and helpless, trying to break Race out of his flashback. “I know at least one of the people in the other cars died,” he said, voice shaking. “I don’t know about anyone else...”

Hannah nodded solemnly. “If you want to know, that may be public information.”

He shook his head quickly. “I don’t want to know. I already know there’s people dead because of me, I don’t need to know more.”

“Tony,” Hannah said, “you’re not the first person to be in a car accident, and you won’t be the last. You weren’t texting or just not paying attention. You weren’t being reckless. I hope you won’t hold on to this guilt.”

“I don’t got much else to hold on to,” Race replied miserably.

Hannah frowned, then opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. “I’m going to go out on a limb and ask, if Spot was here, what do you think he would say to you?”

Race frowned deeply. “Don’t do that. Don’t try and leverage him against me or whatever. You aren’t him. You don’t know him. Don’t give me that ‘what would Spot want you to do’ bullshit. You don’t know what he would want, or what he would think, or what he would say.” Race was crying again now, sad and angry and guilty and indignant.

“You’re right,” Hannah conceded. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“I don’t know,” Race snapped, wiping at his face furiously. “It would be a whole different situation if he was here, but he’s not. That’s the problem.”

Hannah didn’t say anything, after that. Race just cried, and she just watched, not that she could do much else over Skype.

Eventually, he quieted again. “I just want him back...” he said with a sniffle. “I don’t wanna be part of a world without Spot in it.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” Hannah said. “You have my cell phone number, right? You can call or text me any time of the day or night, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

He nodded, though he doubted he would ever use it. “Sure. Thanks, Hannah.”

“Never feel bad about getting support. You’re going through some really hard stuff.”

He sort of smiled, but really it was just a cringe. “Thanks, Hannah.”

‘Hard stuff’. This wasn’t hard stuff. Hard stuff was your friend being mad at you or a breakup or losing a pet. This wasn’t ‘hard’; this was unbearable.

* * *

A couple hours later, while laying on his bed trying to nap—what else was there to do?—Race received a text from Beth. “ _ J and M out to lunch. Do you want to FaceTime? _ ”

He sat up quickly and texted back, “ _ omg yes please thank you _ ” A few moments later, his phone screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call from Beth. and he swiped to answer. “Hey, Beth.”

“Hey,” she replied, smiling tiredly—he couldn’t actually see her mouth, as she was wearing a mask, but he could see it in her eyes. She looked exhausted. “How are you holding up?”

He smiled weakly. “Less than ideal. How’s Spot? Any change?”

“Still nothing groundbreaking. He’s doing okay. I assume you want to see him?”

He nodded quickly. “Please.”

The camera flipped, and there he was. His head was still bandaged, and he still had a clear mask over his mouth and nose, but they had taken the goggles off his eyes, and most importantly, his chest was steadily rising and falling with his breath.

“Oh,” Race whimpered, and tears sprang to his eyes. “Hi, baby.”

“His nurses changed his bandages a while ago,” Beth told him. “They said the incision is healing well. His cuts and bruises are healing.” She sighed. “He’s working really hard.”

Race barely heard her, instead much more focused on his poor, sweet, wonderful boy. “I’m so sorry, Spot,” he said, for what must’ve been the hundredth time in the past three days. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I love you so much.”

Beth moved the camera a little closer. “Keep talking. I don’t know if he’s hearing, but if he is, I know he’d want to hear you.”

Of course, that set Race off crying. “I’m right here, Spot,” he said, sniffling. “They made me leave, but I’m still right here. If I could be there with you I would, you know I would. I wouldn’t leave your side.”

He knew he was doing it for Spot, on the off-chance Spot could hear him, but just  _ seeing _ him, seeing him broken and not being able to touch him or comfort him, was torture.

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpered again. “I wish I could be there. I wish I could hold you. I love you. I’m so sorry.”

He could see Beth’s hand as she reached out to gently touch Spot’s cheek. There was something incredibly strange about being someone, anyone, be touched and not react at all, but this wasn’t just strange, it was  _ awful _ . It was just so cosmically unfair. Race would’ve given anything to be there with him. Spot would have wanted  _ Race _ , not Julie.

“I wish I could be there,” he said again, tearfully. “It should be me.” He didn’t know if he meant he should be the one beside the hospital bed, or the one in it.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Beth said. “I wish you could be here, too. I know this must be so hard.”

“It’s just not fair,” he said miserably. “It should be me.”

Beth didn’t respond. To be fair, what could she have said? It was a few moments before she spoke again. and she sounded almost as choked up as Race. “His ICP  _ has _ gone down a little. It’s not that nothing’s happening. It’s just...not as fast as we had hoped.”

“How long d’you think it’ll take before...?” Before the doctors decide to wake him up...before the doctors decide enough is enough…

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “It has to go down more. A lot more.”

Race took a wavering breath. “Beth, can I ask you something? And will you be honest with me—like really, actually honest?”

She exhaled. “Yes, always.”

“Do you think he’s gonna make it?”

She answered without hesitation. “I don’t know, Anthony. I really don’t. At this point, the scale could tip either way. Either his intracranial pressure will start going down soon or...it won’t.”

He whimpered quietly. “But do you think it will?”

“I have no idea. I’m just...” She faltered for a moment. “I’m hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.” That wasn’t a real answer, but at the same time, it was. If she was avoiding a clear answer, that meant she didn’t think he was going to improve. “He’s tough,” she went on. “It’s honestly...truly amazing that he even made it to the hospital, much more through surgery. He’s trying.”

‘Trying’. But would trying be enough? It was a wonder he made it to the hospital, it was a wonder he made it through surgery, it was a wonder he’d hung on this long...how much further could wonders go?

“He’s tough,” Beth said again. “If anyone can do it, he can,” and Race was struck by the similarity of what she just said to what Hannah had said about him.

Spot was tough, and Race was resilient. If anyone could do it, they could.


	99. Oof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof
> 
> (Trigger warning in the end notes. Take care of yourselves)

“Hi, I’m here to see Spot.”

The nurse at the reception desk looked up at Race for a moment before looking back at her computer. She frowned a bit, then shook her head. “Sorry, honey, we don’t have him.”

Race frowned. “No, you do. I was just here. He’s here. Sean Conlon.”

She checked her computer again. “No one in the hospital by that name.”

Race shook his head as panic started to rise in his throat. “No. No, he’s here. He has to be here!”

She shook her head as well. “He’s not here, Race.”

“No,” Race repeated, tears springing to his eyes. “No, he  _ has _ to be here! What happened? Did they transfer him somewhere?”

“Race,” Beth said from beside him, and Race spun around quickly to face her.

“Beth! Where’s Spot? What happened?”

She frowned, like she was confused. “Spot passed away, last night.”

Race’s heart dropped out through his stomach. “Wh—what?” He stammered, blinking hard. It was like he’d been suddenly submerged in icy water, he couldn’t breathe, and everything was muted, but sharply painful.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the other nurse said. “You need to leave—”

“What do you mean he  _ passed away? _ ” Race asked, ignoring the other nurse. He had to have misunderstood or misheard Beth.

“He died, Race,” Beth said. “He’s gone.”

“No, no,” Race stammered again, tears running freely down his face now. “He’s not, he can’t be.” Someone would’ve told him. Beth would’ve called to say Spot was getting worse. She would’ve given Race the chance to say goodbye. This couldn’t be happening...but it wasn’t happening; that was the problem, it had already happened. It had happened, and Race wasn’t there. It had happened, and it was Race’s fault. Spot was gone, and Race was alone.

* * *

Race woke with a yelp, to the sudden and confusing sense of falling—having twisted and thrashed his way off the edge of Spot’s bed—and hit the ground with a  _ thud _ , in a tangle of sweaty sheets. Once it solidified in his mind that it had been a dream—a horrible and all too possible dream—he curled up into a tight ball on the floor and cried, shaking with quiet, gasping sobs, hurting so much he couldn’t make a sound. He couldn’t bear it. It was too much.

“Tony?” The door opened, and his mother appeared, his father right behind her. “Oh, baby, are you okay?”

Race couldn’t answer her, he was crying so hard he could barely breathe, let alone talk.

“Nightmare?” his father quietly asked his mother. Moments later, their hands were on him, gathering him up into their arms.

“I can’t,” he finally managed to gasp between racking sobs, “I can’t.”

“Shshsh,” Mrs. Higgins cooed. “Don’t try to talk, just breathe.”

Race wailed, a horrible, wordless, keening cry. Spot wasn’t even dead yet, not really, not properly, but he might as well be. It was only a matter of time before the doctors and his parents gave up completely, and he would be gone, and it was Race’s fault. Race’s fault, and he couldn’t bear it. Not any more. Not again. First his father—if his father hadn’t been singing to him, if he was looking at the road instead of in the mirror—and now Spot. It was too much. Too much pain, too much loss.

He felt hands on his face, but it was too dark and his vision too blurry to make out whose they were. He could hear his parents' voices, but they sounded watery, muffled, echoey. He was sure they were talking, but the panic from the dream was still pounding in his head, drowning everything else out. It didn’t really matter what they were saying, anyway. Nothing really mattered anymore. It wasn’t long before the panic leveled off, leaving behind that same, gaping sadness, but it felt more pronounced now. It had only been a dream, but it had been enough.

His father was cradling his head against his shoulder, and his mother was rubbing his back.

“Are you alright, Tony?” Mrs. Higgins asked shakily.

“I just want him back...” Race said, sniffling.

“Was it a nightmare, or...?”

He nodded.

“It wasn’t real, bud,” Mr. Higgins said. “Just a dream.”

“It  _ is _ real,” he whimpered.

“What do you mean?”

“Spot’s gone,” he said miserably, not even bothering to try and push away the tears still falling.

“He’s not gone, sweetie,” Mrs. Higgins said. “He’s still at the hospital.”

Race shook his head. “He’s not getting better. At least, not fast enough for it to matter.”

“Oh, sweetie—” Her voice cracked, and she leaned her forehead against his shoulder.

Race sobbed. “I can’t do it, momma. I can’t stand it, I—” he broke down again.

She wrapped her arms around his middle, and Mr. Higgins rocked him slightly. He hung onto them and cried. He didn’t know what else to do, there was nothing else he  _ could _ do. Everything hurt, physically and mentally, like everything inside him was gone, and he was imploding in on himself to fill that space. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t get the breath. Another accident, another loss. It was too much. He didn’t know how much more, or how much longer, he could handle.

“Why don’t you come back to bed with us, buddy?” Mr. Higgins asked softly.

Race shook his head. “I wanna stay in here.” He’d been sleeping in Spot’s room, the past two nights, desperate to feel in any way closer to him.

“Do you want us to stay with you?”

He shook his head again. “I wanna be with Spot.”

“I know, sweetie, but he’s in the hospital,” Mrs. Higgins said.

Race whimpered. He knew that. Of course he knew that, but that wasn’t what he meant. He didn’t want to be at the hospital, he wanted to be  _ with Spot _ . But he didn’t know how to explain that. Not in a way that would make any sense.

“Do you want us to stay with you, or would you rather be alone?” Mr. Higgins asked, clearly laying out the only two options Race had.

“I want to be alone,” he said quietly. It wasn’t what he really wanted, but it was closer.

His parents both paused for a moment, undoubtedly surprised, before his mother said, “Okay. Let us tuck you in.”

He nodded numbly and stood, tripping a little on the sheets still tangled around his legs. His parents guided him back onto the bed and straightened the blankets out on top of him.

“Do you need anything, before we go?” Mr. Higgins asked.

Race shook his head. “I just want to go back to sleep.” He didn’t want to be conscious and thinking.

“Okay.”

Both his parents kissed him on his forehead and told him goodnight, then left him alone per his request, although they looked a little nervous about it. Race lay there in the dark, quietly miserable, wishing he could just shut off his mind. Sleep would bring more nightmares, undoubtedly, but being awake was its own sort of nightmare, at this point. He didn’t know what to do. There was no way to escape.

“I wish I was dead...” he mumbled aloud, though there was no one except Lizzie to hear it.

She didn’t respond, not even with a shuffle or a twitter. She was asleep, of course, but it felt like she just didn’t care.

* * *

“Sweetie?” Mrs. Higgins leaned over the back of the couch, where Race had been curled up since dragging himself out of Spot’s bed around noon. “I have to go into work for an hour or two. We’re all going online, so we have to clear out the office. Will you be okay here, by yourself?”

“Yeah,” Race mumbled, muffled by the fuzzy blanket cocoon around him.

“Okay.” She brushed a hand over his hair. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Call me if you need anything or just need to talk.”

“Sure,” he replied, even though he knew he wouldn’t call.

Mrs. Higgins hesitated for a minute, then left through the garage. Race heard the door raise and go back down. For a few more minutes, he lay on the couch, staring blankly out the front window, unable to muster the willpower to move. He was just so  _ tired _ —tired of hurting, tired of crying, tired of thinking, tired of  _ being _ . He just wanted to be with Spot.

But he couldn’t be with Spot. Not anymore. It was only a matter of time before his nightmare came true—Spot would be gone, and Race would be alone, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He already couldn’t bear it. It was just too much. Too much had happened, and too much was his fault, and he just couldn’t do it anymore.

With a slow, rough exhale, Race sat up, letting the blanket fall off his shoulders. He stood, leaving his cocoon behind, and headed for the office, to get a pen and a piece of scrap paper. It felt really shitty, leaving a note, but he had to offer at least some sort of explanation for his parents. He stared at the paper blankly for a few seconds, before writing out:

“ _ Mom, Dad, _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ I just couldn’t do it. _

_ Everything is my fault, and I just can’t take it anymore. _

_ I love you both so, so much, and I’m sorry _

_ ~Tony _ ”

He stared at the paper again, and tears started to fall. He sniffled, brushing roughly at his eyes with his fist.

He knew he was being unfair and hurtful, but God, he’d already hurt so many people.

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins had been okay before Race, and they would be okay after Race, too.

He headed for the upstairs bathroom, pausing to drop the note on the coffee table on his way through the living room. On his way up the stairs, Race pulled out his phone and opened the Two Musketqueers and The Token Straighty group chat. He brushed at the tears on his cheeks again before typing a message.

“ _ Look. I know you guys are gonna be really mad at me, and I’m sorry, I really am. I love you both so much, you’re the best friends a guy could ever ask for. I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t take it. _ ”

He hit send, and headed into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He paused, staring at his reflection in the mirror. For some reason, he felt like he couldn’t really do it until he told someone, so he typed another message.

“ _ I killed my boyfriend. So I’m gonna eat the contents of this medicine cabinet. _ ”

His phone buzzed immediately with a reply from Jack. “ _ Oh my god are you serious??? _ ”

From Albert. “ _ DONT _ ”

From Jack again. “ _ Please don’t” _

“ _ Al go get him I’m calling his parents _ ”

Race felt a pang of guilt and regret. They were upset and scared, but that was to be expected. He thought about replying, but what would he say? There was no use drawing it out or trying to further explain. There was no way he could make them understand, so he flipped his phone face down on the counter and opened the medicine cabinet. With all the medication for his depression and bipolar and trouble sleeping, there was certainly enough in there to do the job. Race grabbed the bottle of Wellbutrin, and popped the top off. Staring down at its contents, he wondered absently if it would hurt—the dying. It probably would, and he didn’t like that, but however much it hurt, it certainly couldn’t be as bad as he was already hurting. Besides, it would be temporary, and after that...

He was honestly looking forward to it, almost as curious as he was despondent. Heaven...sure there was speculation, but no one really knew what it would be like. Maybe he could even see Spot, again…

He heard a slam, and he jumped, sloshing a few pills onto the floor. “Race!” Albert shouted from the back door. “Fuck— _ Race! _ ”

Race winced. This complicated things. He should have waited to text them till after he’d already taken the pills.

“Race, stop!” Albert pounded on the door a few more times, then there was a pause.

Race exhaled slowly, hoping—even though he knew it wasn’t the case—that he had gone away. He looked back to the medicine cabinet, searching for his Lamictal. Had someone moved it?

There was a sudden crash and the sound of breaking glass from downstairs, and Race jolted so violently that he dropped the pill bottle in his hand, sending its contents scattering across the floor. He moaned miserably, tears falling freely as he sank to the floor in pursuit of his quickly disappearing exit strategy. This was so hard—why was this so hard? This should’ve been so simple.

“Race!?” Albert called. He was definitely inside the house, now. Holy shit, had he broken the back door? “ _ Fuck, fuck. _ ”

Race heard footsteps on the stairs. “Go away, Albert!” he yelled miserably, attempting to gather the pills that had scattered across the tile floor.

“Are you fucking crazy!?” Albert shouted, now pounding on the bathroom door. “Race, let me in!”

“ _ Go away! _ ” he cried again, though it was half a sob.

“No!” More pounding on the door. “Race, stop! Please, stop!”

“Just  _ leave! _ ” he wailed, half blinded by tears. “Leave me alone!”

“You can’t do this, Race!”

Well, at least they agreed about that—though ‘this’ meant different things. Race shook his head, still trying to gather the pills. “I can’t do  _ this _ . I can’t keep going. I just—” He sobbed. “I just want it to stop.”

“Please, let me in. We can talk about this.”

Race shook his head again. “I don’t wanna talk anymore, Al. I don’t wanna think anymore, I don’t wanna  _ be _ anymore.”

“Let me in, Race.” The door handle rattled, then the door slammed against its frame as Albert, apparently, slammed his whole body into it. “Fucking let me in, man!”

Race whimpered, scrabbling across the floor. He was crying and shaking hard enough that he could barely pick up the few pills he’d managed to gather. The whole thing was considerably harder, since he only had one functional hand at the moment.

“Fuck,” Albert hissed, then slammed against the door again. This hit sounded harder, more targeting. Maybe he kicked it.

Even though, distantly, Race knew what he had wasn’t enough to do any real damage, he popped the pills in his hand into his mouth, but he was crying too hard to swallow. Albert kicked the door again and again, until the wood around the handle began to splinter, like some fucked up parody of The Shining where Wendy Torrance  _ wants _ to die. Race tried again to swallow and gagged. Too many pills in his mouth—though still not enough—and not enough water. 

Albert let out a wordless cry of frustration and kicked the door one more time, and the handle broke. In a blur of motion, the door swung violently open, and Albert crashed to the ground in front of Race.

“What did you do!?” he shouted, taking Race’s face in his hands. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Race sobbed, trying to pull away from him, but Albert held on. “Is there—? Do you have—?” He grabbed Race’s jaw and forced his fingers in his mouth.

“Mm!” Race protested, jerking backwards.

Still holding his jaw, Albert pushed on his forehead. “Open your mouth! Open your fucking mouth, Race!”

Race sobbed as Albert forced his mouth open. Crying and coughing. He swallowed two or three pills in the chaos, while most clattered to the floor. Albert grabbed his face again.

“How many did you take? How many did you get down?”

Race coughed again, tears streaming down his face, and shook his head.

“How many, Race!?”

“Just let me die,” Race cried weakly, trying one more time to pull back out of Albert’s grip before just giving up and going limp.

“Tell me how many you took,” Albert insisted, “or I’m calling an ambulance.”

Race didn’t have the energy to try and fight Albert. It was over, anyway. Now, the only thing to do was stay out of the hospital—he wasn’t going back to The Refuge, no matter what.

“Only two. Maybe three,” he answered numbly. “I couldn’t swallow.”“I’m sorry...” Race mumbled against Albert’s shoulder, and for some reason that started him quietly crying again.

Albert exhaled sharply, and Race noticed for the first time that his cheeks were soaked with tears, and there was a jagged cut up the back of his forearm that was slowly dripping blood onto the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” he asked again, shaking Race slightly. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“I—I’m sorry,” Race stammered.

A harsh sob tore out of Albert’s through, and he yanked Race forward, tightening his arms around his back. Race made a noise of surprise, then shakily wrapped his arms around Albert, gripping the back of his shirt so tightly it felt like his fingers might snap.

“You can’t do that,” Albert whimpered. “Fuck, Racer.”

Race didn’t know what to say, how to explain or justify. There were no words to describe the aching sorrow he felt. So he just said again, “I’m sorry...”

Albert turned his head and pressed a kiss to Race’s temple, then another. Race couldn’t remember a time Albert had ever kissed him, before. Of course, this set Race off crying again. He buried his face in Albert’s shoulder and hung on as tight as he could.

Albert let go with one arm and shifted around a little bit, and Race could hear him tapping on his phone. “Jack?” he said, after a few seconds, voice thick and broken. “Yeah, I’ve him. Call his parents and tell them I’ve got him.”

“Oh God,” Race whimpered, and straightened up a bit, without pulling away. “Don’t. Don’t tell my folks. Can’t we just pretend I didn’t—?”

Albert snapped weakly, “We already told your folks, dumbass.”

“Oh no...” He shouldn’t have even tried. He should’ve known he wouldn’t have been able to do it right. Now he’d just hurt even more of the people he loved.

“Pills,” Albert responded to something Jack said. “Spilled them all over the fucking floor. Had some in his mouth when I got here.” His voice cracked dangerously on his last sentence, and he sniffled. “Yeah. Yeah, he spit ‘em out.”

Race whimpered and buried his face in Albert’s shoulder again. He just wanted to go away, he wanted everything to go away.

* * *

Race and Albert were still wrapped around each other on the bathroom floor, when Jack arrived a few minutes later. “Al? Race?” he called from the entry.

“Up here!” Albert called back.

Jack came flying up the stairs, and Race looked up as he appeared in the doorway.

“I’m sorry...” Race said quietly.

Jack’s eyes widened when he saw the number of pills on the floor, and he reached out his hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Okay,” Race confirmed shakily, taking his offered hand and letting Jack pull him to his feet. Jack wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him and pulled him out into the hallway, Albert right behind them. 

“What’s that?” Albert asked, gesturing to a piece of paper in Jack’s hand that Race instantly recognized as the note he’d left on the coffee table.

Jack handed it over to Albert. “Man, his parents don’t need to see this shit.”

Another wave of miserable guilt crashed over Race, and he winced.

“Come on,” Jack said. “Let’s go to your room.”

They crossed the hall and went in to sit on Race’s bed. Race tucked his knees to his chest, wishing, not for the first time, that he could just shrink in on himself until he disappeared.

Jack pulled him into his arms as best he could and turned to Albert, who was still shaking and crying. “You need a minute, man?”

Albert nodded quickly and ducked out into the hallway.

Jack was clearly shaken up, but not nearly as bad as Albert. Race supposed that made sense, since Albert was the one who actually had to stop him. Race felt like he should apologize to Albert or try to comfort him, but he didn’t know how, so instead he just curled up tighter and leaned into Jack.

Jack sniffled and kissed Race’s hair. “You can’t do that, man.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, brushing at the tears still trailing down his cheeks. “I just...I can’t take it anymore. I can’t do it.”

“How were we supposed to?” Jack asked, voice wavering. “Me an’ Al an’ your parents? How were your parents supposed to call your grandma and everyone and tell ‘em? How was I supposed to go to school or—or look at Al or—step foot in a fucking Wal-Mart again, Racer?” He sobbed. “This ain’t just you bein’ stupid and reckless. That pisses me off. This is you actually trying to leave us, and I don’t even know what to do with that.”

Race sobbed quietly, crying harder now. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to leave you all, I just wanted it to stop—”

Jack sighed, combing his fingers through Race’s hair. “Is Spot...?”

“He’s not getting better fast enough. The doctors, his folks, they’re gonna give up, and then—” He broke off with another sob. “I can’t. I can’t do it. If he’s dead—” He choked on his tears, burying his face in his arms.

“What—?” Albert’s voice came from the doorway. “You mean he’s not dead yet?”

“Al, what the fuck?” Jack cut in incredulously.

“No, what if he had woken up and you were gone?” Albert went on. “What were you thinking?”

Race sobbed helplessly, crying too hard to talk. Albert was right—of course, he was right—Race hadn’t thought this through at all. He was just scared and hurting and hopeless.

Downstairs, the garage door began to raise. One of his parents was home.

“Oh no,” he wailed miserably and started crying even harder.

He heard a door open downstairs, and then Mrs. Higgins called, “Anthony!?”

“We’re up here, Mrs. Higgins,” Jack called back.

Albert moved into Race’s room to leave space in the doorway, and then Mrs. Higgins was there. 

“Oh, Tony,” she exhaled tearfully, crossing the room to drag Race, sobbing, into her arms.

“Why didn’t you call me? I told you to call me.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered thickly through his tears. “I’m sorry.”

She kissed the top of his head. “I love you so much, Tony. You’re my baby. Don’t you ever try that again, okay?”

He nodded, crying too hard to properly answer.

She kissed his head again. “I waited for you for so long. I won’t lose you, now.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed again, not knowing what else to say. What else could he say? He couldn’t make her understand. He couldn’t make any of them understand. Jack was right; it wasn’t fair to any of them, what he’d tried to do. And Albert, too; what if Spot woke up? No one thought he would, but what if he did, and Race was gone?

None of it was fair. There was no good option and no way out.

* * *

Eventually, once everyone had stopped crying, they moved downstairs. Jack found some Sharpies in the office and took to drawing on Race’s cast. Mrs. Higgins—always one for stress-cooking—offered to make lunch, and the boys accepted. On Race’s part, it was more wanting to please his mother than actual hunger. At this point, he couldn’t imagine ever being much of anything, let alone hungry, again.

As Mrs. Higgins was making her way into the kitchen, the door from the house into the garage opened again, and Mr. Higgins ran in.

Race looked over from his spot on the couch, between Albert and Jack. “Hi, Dad...” he offered falteringly, still heavy with something between despair and guilt.

“Hey, Bud,” Mr. Higgins said on an exhale, making his way over. He hugged Race tight. “You okay?”

“I mean, no,” Race admitted with a watery, miserable laugh.

Mr. Higgins rubbed his back. “We gotcha. We’re gonna figure this out, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, pressing his face into his dad’s shoulder.

“I love you, Anthony.”

“I love you too, Dad. I’m sorry...”

“Don’t worry about that. You’re here. We’ve got you. That’s all that matters.”

Race nodded, sinking out of his father’s embrace and back onto the couch. He was just...so tired.

“I’m gonna go talk to your mom for a minute, okay?” Mr. Higgins said, straightening back up.

Race nodded again, pulling his legs back up onto the couch and tucking his knees to his chest, and Mr. Higgins headed out of the room.

“Al, your shoulder...” Jack said, frowning.

Albert frowned as well, looking down at his right shoulder, where the skin was turning a selection of interesting colors underneath the hem of his T-shirt sleeve.

“I can’t believe you broke the fucking door down...” Race said quietly.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” Albert shot back. “I didn’t have time to go through your fucking window.”

“I’m sorry...” Race whimpered. At least the horrible, miserable guilt of scaring and disappointing his friends and family was a change from the horrible, miserable guilt of killing his boyfriend. It wasn’t exactly a welcome change—really, it just made everything worse—but at least it was something else to think about and hate himself for.

Breaking down two doors was no easy feat, and judging by the bruises on Albert’s shoulder and the cuts on his arm, it had probably been a pretty painful one.

Albert would have done anything to get to him.

Race reached out to gently touch his arm. “Al...”

Albert looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Albert replied. “I want you to not do it.”

“Well...I didn’t...” Race didn’t know what else to say. Albert had stopped him, but if he hadn’t gotten there so fast…

Albert frowned deeply and leaned his head on Race’s shoulder.

Race rested his cheek on Albert’s head, then turned to press a kiss into his hair. “I love you, man...I’m sorry.”

“Love you, too,” Albert mumbled.

“Heeey, what about me?” Jack grumbled, scooting closer on Race’s other side and draping himself against his shoulder.

Race laughed weakly, reaching awkwardly around to take Jack’s hand. “I love you too, Jackaboy.”

For a minute, they just say there, the three of them smushed together on the couch. Then, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins came back into the living room. Mrs. Higgins crossed the room to sit in the arm chair, and Mr. Higgins stood next to her.

Mrs. Higgins clasped her hands in her lap and took a slow breath. “Tony, sweetie, we think we should go to the hospital.”

Cold fear slid down Race’s spine, and he sat up straight, shaking his head quickly. “No.”

“It won’t be the same,” she insisted. “Emergency inpatient usually only lasts a couple days. They won’t be messing with your medication—”

He shook his head again, tightly gripping the fabric of Albert’s shirt, and tears sprang to his eyes. “I don’t wanna go, please.”

“You can’t send him back there,” Albert said.

Relief and gratitude flooded Race’s system at Albert’s defense, though it didn’t quite drive out the apprehensive fear.

Mrs. Higgins sighed helplessly, and looked to Mr. Higgins. He had a stern, reasonable look on his face as he spoke. “He needs help, Al. We need help—”

“Don’t tell me what he needs!” Albert interrupted. “He’s my best friend! I’ve known him longer than any of you!”

“We can’t watch him all the time. I still need to go to work, and Rachel—”

“Don’t talk about me like I can’t understand what’s going on!” Race snapped, crying now.

“Then I’ll stay!” Albert said. “We‘re doing school online, anyway!”

Albert, always his protector. Race clung to him, like he was worried that someone would try to physically drag him away—and maybe he sort of was. That’s what happened, last time.

“We’re not doctors, Tony,” Mrs. Higgins conceded. “We can’t force you to go, but please... You can’t do this ever again. If you think you will—”

“If I go back to The Refuge, I will die,” he said, and he meant it. He didn’t know how specifically, but he knew going back would kill him.

Mrs. Higgins sighed again. “Okay.”

Then, his phone lit up on the coffee table with a text from Beth. She had already sent him his daily update, so if she was texting him again, that meant something must have changed.

“Oh no...” he whimpered, and he reached for his phone, terrified that it would be bad news.

“_ICP dropped_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide attempt


	100. I Want to See My Little Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some platonic Ralbert for your weary souls.

“Do you really have to stand there and watch me take a piss?”

“Yep,” Albert replied, sitting on the bathroom counter.

“I guess I can’t close the door, anyway. Y’might as well come on in and get the full show,” Race grumbled, unzipping his pants.

“I’m not looking at your dick,” Albert said, in fact looking at his phone, “and even if I was, I’m not interested, I’ve seen it before, and it’s not that impressive.”

Race gasped indignantly and pouted at him. “My dick is _beautiful!_”

“Oh, you’re a bottom; what do you care?” Albert waved dismissively.

“It still matters!” Race protested.

Having Albert around had significantly improved his mood, not to mention the news of Spot’s improvement. There was still plenty to worry about, but at least Spot was stable for the first time since the accident. The pressure in his skull had finally, finally started going down. They wouldn’t know the extent of the damage done until he woke up, but it was ‘until’ now, not ‘if’. Last Race heard from Beth, if Spot continued to improve, the doctors were considering waking him up on Thursday. That was only two more days. Only two more days, and Race had nearly...

He checked himself before spiraling down the trail of guilt and grief and regret that came with what he’d nearly done.

Speaking of done, he zipped his pants back up and turned to the sink to wash his hands.

Albert scooted out of his way, still fixated on his phone. “You wanna order Uber Eats and play Doom?”

“Sure,” Race confirmed, washing up, and then shaking his wet hands at Albert, rather than reaching for a towel.

Albert smacked his hands away. “Fuck off. Whadda you want to eat?”

Race hummed contemplatively. “Taco Baco.”

“‘Kay.” Albert hopped down off the counter. “Whatcha want?”

“Tinkle outside the binkle,” Race replied, following him out of the bathroom and down the stairs.

“That’s not an order, shithead!”

“Albert!” Mrs. Higgins called from the office.

“Sorry, Mom!” he called back.

Race grinned. He loved it that he and Albert sometimes called each other’s moms ‘mom’, like the two of them were actually siblings. “Okay, I want an ass—buttload,” he quickly corrected himself, “of nachos and two quesaritos.”

Albert snorted. “You want a buttload, period.”

“Albeeeert,” Mrs. Higgins scolded again, and Race snickered, dropping onto the couch.

“Way to advertise my sex life, or I guess lack thereof.”

It was stupid, but even just the mention of his ‘lack thereof’ reminded him of Spot not being there, and he felt a sad, fearful pang in his stomach. Spot had improved, was improving, but would it be enough? Would he be okay? Would he be the same?

“Better than my sex life,” Albert grumbled, typing what was presumably their order into his phone.

“What is ‘none’ better than?” Race scoffed.

“None for longer than you’ve been getting none.”

“Oh yeah, how are you gonna meet any more blonde bimbos, now that school is remote?” Race teased. He was trying to be normal—to pretend like less than twenty-four hours ago, Albert hadn’t been forcing him to cough out a handful of pills. He still felt hollow inside, but at least there was a spark of hope now. On one hand, he didn’t want to get his hopes up just to get crushed again. On the other, he clearly couldn’t live without it.

“Get COVID, hit on some nurses.” Albert shrugged. “Spot’s aunt’s kinda hot.”

Race snorted. “Yikes.”

Albert crashed down onto the couch next to him. “Taco Baco’s on its way.”

“Tinkle outside the binkle,” Race repeated dutifully, tipping over sideways to rest against Albert’s shoulder. Albert had been significantly cuddlier—or at least more willing to tolerate it—since Race’s ‘attempt’, and Race was absolutely going to capitalize on it while it lasted.

Albert started the PlayStation, bumping Race’s cast in grabbing the controller. He glanced down at it. “Jack did a good ass job on that.”

Race grunted in agreement, looking at the collection of fancy ass doodles Jack had done. “I’m thinking of getting it tattooed on, after the cast comes off.”

“That’d be sick as fuck.” Albert nodded.

“Hey, you know what this is about?” Race asked, pointing to the inside of his forearm, where Jack had written ‘NOT TODAY’ in all capital letters with vertical lines through the O’s.

“It’s a Game of Thrones thing,” Albert said. “‘What do we say to the god of death?’”

Race huffed, amused. “Ya buncha nerds.”

Albert shoved him. “He’s trying to be fucking sentimental. We thought you were gonna die.”

Race whined in complaint as Albert’s shove dislodged Race from his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I didn’t, thanks to you. Guess you own me now.”

“Ah, fuck.”

Race wrinkled his nose up. “Yeah, less appealing than when it was Spot, but I guess I can work with it.”

“I don’t want you for the same reasons as Spot,” Albert said, selecting Doom from the list of games Race had downloaded.

Race pouted dramatically. “Tragic.”

Albert handed Race the other controller. “You get to be Player Two.”

“No way; it’s my house!” he protested.

“I own you!” Albert argued.

Race whined loudly, but relented. “It’s definitely hotter when Spot says it.”

“Eee_eew_.”

Race wondered if he would ever get to hear Spot say...well, anything ever again, and he faltered, but forced a smirk, trying to ignore the thought and be hopeful. Spot would wake up on Thursday. Surely, he would talk again.

Would he talk to Race, though?

Would he remember Race? Would he remember anything? What if he remembered Race, but refused to talk to him after what he’d done? Race felt a little sick as dread swirled in the pit of his stomach. There was hope, sure, but things could still go so, so wrong.

“Hey.” Albert elbowed him. “You wanna kill some monsters or not?”

Race blinked, snapping out of it and looking quickly at Albert, then to the TV. “Uh, yeah, right.” He picked up his controller, frowning slightly as it felt different with the cast on his hand.

Albert, as Player One, set up the game. Race selected his weapons mostly at random, trying to concentrate on the game, rather than spiraling into a Spot-centric pit of despair. But y’know that thing, when you realize you aren’t focusing, so you try to focus, but then you’re focusing on focusing instead of actually focusing, and you end up focusing even less than before? Yeah.

It was going to be a very long two days.

* * *

“Y’know, it’s kinda weird, being in this bed with you instead’a him,” Race mused quietly, obviously talking about Spot.

Albert, who was half asleep on the other side of Spot’s bed, grunted.

“I just—I really miss him, y’know?” Race went on. “I miss touching him—”

“Gross,” Albert mumbled, and Race reached over blindly in the dark to smack his chest.

“I didn’t even mean like that. I mean, I do miss the fucking and everything, but I just miss touching him.” He sniffled. “We were always touching, just little absent things, like playing with his fingers while we were holding hands, and he was always messing with my hair. It was like we were magnetic; any time we were close enough, there was always something.”

“Well,” Albert hummed sleepily, “I guess you could touch me, a bit.” Race snorted quietly and giggled, and Albert smacked at him a few times. “Not like that, you little fag. Now stop being gay and hold my damn hand or something.”

Smiling, Race rolled over, closer, and hugged Albert’s arm. “Thanks, Al…”

“Yeah, yeah.” Al turned his head, leaning the lower half of his face in Race’s hair.

“I love you, man,” Race said softly. “Like, really. A lot.”

Albert hummed. “You’re my best friend.”

“Uno reverse, bitch,” Race retorted sleepily.

For a minute, Albert didn’t say anything, and Race thought he must have finally dipped into sleep. Then, quietly. “I love you more than anything, stupid.”

Race smiled. He didn’t know what to say or how to convey the depth of his adoration for his best friend, so, after a second of thought, he just hiked his legs up, completely koala-ing himself around Albert’s arm, and bit his shoulder.

“You fucker,” Albert sighed.

“Shut up, you love me,” Race replied, muffled against his shoulder.

Albert grunted and spat in Race’s hair.

Race squawked and whined loudly. “What the fuuuck?”

“Turnabitch is fair play, bout.”

“I didn’t spit on you!” he protested.

“You bit me.”

“So bite back, coward. Spitting is different.”

“Can’t reach anywhere but your hair,” Albert mumbled, taking one of Race’s curls in his mouth and munching on it like a placid cow in a golden field of wheat.

Race giggled, still pressing his face into Albert’s shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

“You’re...gay.”

He giggled harder, properly silly-sleepy at this point. “That’s not an insult, stupid, especially not when it’s true.”

“Fuck off,” Albert groaned. “Tired.”

“Then shut up, go to sleep.”

“Trying.”

“Goodnight, Al,” Race said with another smile, sighing and shifting to get more comfortable. He moved his legs to a more normal position, but kept hugging Albert’s arm, grateful for the closeness.

“Night, Racer,” Albert exhaled, relaxing.

Race sighed again and closed his eyes. He was glad, so glad, that Albert was there, and it helped, but of course it didn’t stop him missing Spot. He just prayed that the remaining days would go by quickly and Spot would be home soon, so Race could hold him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations on making it through 100 chapters of Theories of Conflict.


	101. Here He Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment you’ve all been waiting for?

Bright. That’s all anything was—bright and sharp. It felt like the moment you break the surface of the water when coming up from the depths, when everything is louder for a moment as your ears fill with air, only this was more than a moment. Spot groaned weakly, closing his eyes again.

“Sean?” A gentle pressure on his forehead. He tried to open his eyes again.

Another voice. “Hey. Welcome back.”

Slowly, his mother’s face came into focus.

“Mom,” he murmured. “What...?”

“Oh. Oh, Sean.” She clapped a hand over her mouth—well, where her mouth was, under her medical mask—and burst into tears. “Oh, my baby.”

He frowned, looking around the room. His mother was at his bedside, and a doctor and a nurse were hovering over him. Beth was in the corner, crying silently.

“W—what?” Spot tried again. He realized that he had on a mask, too, but the plastic kind they use to give oxygen or other gasses. He felt distinctly floaty, like he wasn’t quite awake. Maybe he wasn’t. Was he dreaming?

“It’s okay Sean,” his mother said tearfully. “You’re okay now. I’m right here.”

That wasn’t what Spot was asking, but words were hard. What was going on?

“You had us pretty worried for a bit there, Sean,” the doctor said. “Don’t worry about talking right now, just take your time waking up. Everything’s alright. We can answer any questions you have at your pace.”

Spot blinked a few times. He was clearly at the hospital, but nothing else made any sense. Why was his mom there? Why was she wearing a mask like the doctors and nurses? “What happened?” he managed, sort of. His voice was raw, and his words weren’t coming out clearly.

“You were in a car accident,” the doctor told him. “Your airbag didn’t go off, so you were in pretty bad shape. There was a lot of swelling in your brain, so we had to induce a coma to get that down. You’ve been out for a few days, and we’re certainly glad to have you back.”

His mom was holding his hand in both of hers, and crying.

He blinked a few more times, slowly, as the memory started to reform. An accident. Where had he been? Where had he been going? What had—

Oh.

Oh, God,  _ no _ .

He tried to sit up fast. It did not go well, between the millions of tubes and wires still hooked into him and the doctor and nurse reacting quickly to keep him lying down.

“Where’s Anthony?” he asked, suddenly numb from head to toe.

“He went home a few days ago, sweetie,” Julie assured him. “He’s alright.”

Spot exhaled sharply. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she confirmed, nodding, and moving one of her hands to rub Spot’s arm comfortingly. “He’s okay. He’s been pretty worried about you, though.”

“I want to see him.”

“I’m sorry, honey. The hospital isn’t allowing visitors, right now.”

The doctor nodded in confirmation. “Due to COVID, the state is on lockdown. Hospitals especially, we can’t be too careful.”

“You can call him,” Beth assured Spot. “I promise, he’s okay. His airbag went off. He busted up his hand and dislocated his shoulder, but we took care of it all down in emergency. He’s fine, just misses you.”

Spot nodded minutely, still having trouble coming down off the adrenaline rush. Race was okay. That was all that mattered. 

“Are you in any pain, right now?” the doctor asked. “We’re gonna get you started on some morphine.”

Spot  _ was _ in pain, but it was a weird, dull, all-encompassing kind of ache, and he wasn’t sure what was causing it. He nodded.

The doctor nodded as well. “We’ll get that going right away. Now that you’re awake, we’d like to do some tests to assess any potential brain damage. Maybe you can call your friend after that, once you’ve had a little rest.”

Spot didn’t want to wait. He didn’t think he could rest until he actually heard from Race, but he couldn’t very well tell the doctor not to check him out. “Okay...”

“I’m so glad to see you, baby,” Julie sniffled, standing up and taking a step back to give the doctor and nurse space to work.

Spot sighed lightly. He just wanted to be sure Race really was okay.

* * *

“ _ He is awake and talking. The doctor is checking him out now. He asked about you _ .”

“ _ WOOO!!! _ ” Race whooped, flailing and launching his Wiimote across the room in excitement, leaving poor Waluigi to sail off the edge of Rainbow Road.

Albert and Mrs. Higgins both jumped, looking at him like he had just sprouted several extra heads. “Tony?” Mrs. Higgins prompted.

“Spot’s awake!” Race all but screamed. “He’s awake and he’s talking!” Upon announcing this, he promptly burst into tears, overcome with relief.

“Oh,  _ sweetie _ ,” Mrs. Higgins gasped, standing and reaching out for him.

Race climbed off the couch and over the coffee table, tripping into her arms and burying his face in her shoulder, sobbing. “He’s awake. Beth said he asked about me. He’s  _ awake _ .”

“Holy  _ shit! _ ”Albert exclaimed and Mrs. Higgins didn’t even correct him.

“We should tell your father,” she said.

Race nodded, straightening up, and wiped roughly at the tears still streaming down his cheeks. Spot was  _ awake _ . Spot was  _ talking  _ about  _ Race _ . Sweet Jesus fuck, he was okay. Relatively, at least. Race didn’t care if he couldn’t talk quite right or if he never walked again.

“Ohhhhh, I wanna talk to him,” Race said waveringly. “I wanna  _ see _ him.”

“When are you gonna get to talk to him?” Albert asked.

Race exhaled shakily. “I dunno.” He looked at his phone, half hoping for another text from Beth, though nothing was there. “His mom is there...”

“So?” Albert shrugged. “Just don’t be gay.”

Race snorted. “What, me? Gay? C’mon.”

Mrs. Higgins touched his shoulder. “I’m going to call your father, okay?”

Race nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah good.” He shook his hands at his side, trying to get some of the anxious energy out, then grabbed his phone off the coffee table to type a message out to Beth.

“ _ When can I talk to him? Can we FaceTime? _ ”

She replied quickly. “ _ Doc is checking him out, then we’re going to call his dad. Will let you know if he’s up to it, then. He’s really tired _ .”

Race responded immediately, hopping around in a small circle as he typed. “ _ okay great, that’s fine, obviously, whenever he wants _ ”

He hesitated for a second, thinking, before typing another message. “ _ Tell him I love him? But sneaky like, so his mom doesn’t hear _ ”

Beth replied, “ _ Haha, will do _ .”

Race dropped his phone, not caring as it hit the floor and bounced. “Hooooo boy,” he exhaled.

“You good?” Albert asked.

“I wanna see him,” Race said, probably a bit louder than was really necessary. “I wanna see him, and I wanna talk to him, and I—” His voice broke, suddenly and unexpectedly, and then he was crying again. “I want to see that he’s really okay.”

“Oookay.” Albert reached up, grabbed his hand, and pulled him down onto the couch. “Let’s just caaalm down.”

Race sat down heavily, dropping his head into his hands momentarily before dragging his hands back, through his hair, to clutch at the back of his neck. “I wanna tell him I’m  _ sorry _ ,” he sniffled.

“You’re gonna get to,” Albert said.

Race pitched over sideways into Albert, landing face-first in his bicep—there were worse fates, but impact still hurt. “But I wanna be  _ gay! _ ”

Race could just sense Albert rolling his eyes. “You’re impatient. The man just woke up from a fuckin’ coma.”

“I know!” Race protested. “I should be there! I should be with him!”

“We’re in the middle of a plague.”

Race exhaled shakily. He knew he was being unreasonable and unhelpful. He needed to contain himself, for Spot’s sake, if he had any hope of appearing ‘not gay’ when they were finally reunited, as it was very likely to be in front of Julie.

That’s when an awful thought arose, and Race sat bolt upright, looking at Albert in horror.

“They’re gonna take him back to Philly.”

“Wh—” Albert made a face. “Can they do that?”

“I don’t know...” Race admitted. He hoped to God they couldn’t. Spot  _ was _ eighteen…

“Don’t worry about that, yet,” Albert suggested. “He’s awake. He’s probably still gonna be in the hospital for a while.”

Race exhaled and nodded. At least Mark couldn’t get near him, while he was in the hospital.

* * *

Skyping with Mark really wasn’t that bad. He was at Beth’s house, and Spot was at the hospital, and morphine was good.

“I wanna talk to Race,” Spot said.

“Who?” Mark asked, frowning from the screen of the laptop on the little table they’d wheeled in front of Spot.

“That’s Anthony,” Beth clarified. “They go by Race and Spot.”

Spot nodded. “A’thony Luca Higgins.”

“Oh,” Mark chuckled. “Gotcha.”

“You can talk to him soon, sweetie,” Julie told Spot.

Spot groaned, letting his head fall back against his pillow. “His dad died in an accident when he was little, an’ he’s still real fucked up about it, so I gotta talk to him.”

“What are you talking about, Sean? We met his dad.”

“He’s adopted, stupid.”

“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” Mark said, though he sounded more amused than angry.

“It’s alright,” Julie soothed, though it was unclear if she was talking to Spot, or Mark.

“I didn’t know any of that,” Beth said quietly. “Poor Anthony.”

“Anyway,” Mark said, “how are you feeling, Sean? Your mom says the doctor checked you out. No brain damage past what football already did, huh?”

“Mm-mm,” Spot hummed, shaking his head. “I’m just suuuper high. Like, airplane high.” He gestured in a circular motion towards his head. “Soarin’ at twenty-thousand feet or whatever up in here.”

Mark laughed. “Sounds like a pretty good time, if you ask me.”

“Mark,” Julie scolded.

“It’s  _ great _ ,” Spot confirmed. “I mean, I still feel like I ate a dashboard last Friday, but at least I get to float. Like the fuckin’...fuckin’ clown. What’s his name?”

Beth snorted, amused. “Pennywise?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s Pennywise.”

“Fivehead clown,” Spot muttered, closing his eyes. He was pretty damn tired for a guy who had just slept for six days.

“‘Fivehead’?” Mark asked.

“Mm-hm.” Spot opened his eyes again. “Can I talk to Anthony, now?”

“It’s been two minutes, sweetie,” Julie chuckled.

“You and Anthony seem pretty close, huh, Sean?” Mark observed.

Spot nodded.

“I’m so glad you’ve got friends here, baby,” Julie said, reaching out to smooth a hand over what she could reach of Spot’s hair.

Mark hummed. “You might want to be a little careful, Sean. We chatted a bit, and it seems like Anthony might like you as more than a friend...”

Spot’s eyes widened slightly. This was the funniest thing he had ever heard. “ _ Pffffft _ ,” I fuckin’ hope so!”

Beth put a hand over her mask like she was trying not to laugh.

Mark looked absolutely shocked. “What!?”

“Hmm, love him,” Spot sighed, letting his eyes fall closed again.

Mark sputtered indignantly, and Julie spoke up quickly. “He means as a friend, he’s confused, it’s the morphine.”

Spot was drifting already, and he could feel himself starting to drop quickly towards sleep as he listened to their voices.

Mark huffed. “Morphine or not, I should kick his ass for saying something like that.”

There was a pause after that, and the last voice Spot heard before slipping back in unconsciousness was Beth’s. “...What?”


	102. Happy Ficiversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As several of you noticed and pointed out, yesterday was the one-year anniversary of Theories of Conflict! I meant to post this chapter then, but life happened, so here it is, better late than never. :)

Spot slowly awoke an indeterminate amount of time later to the sound of voices just outside his room.

Loud voices.

Very loud, very  _ angry _ voices.

“You knew!” Beth shouted. “You fucking knew, and you let it happen!?”

“Mark is my husband!”

“ _ That _ is your  _ baby! _ ”

Spot slowly blinked a couple times. He didn’t feel quite as foggy from the morphine. He wasn’t sure if that meant he was getting used to it or someone had turned it down.

“He’s just been doing what he thinks is right!” Julie insisted, and Beth scoffed loudly.

“So because  _ he _ thinks it’s right to  _ abuse your son _ —”

“He’s not abusing him!”

“Then what exactly  _ is _ he doing, Julie? What do you call  _ terrorizing a child for sixteen years!? _ ”

“He’s his father,” Julie argued. “He’s disciplining him.”

“Right, like how Dad did, with us.”

“We turned out fine.”

“You did  _ not _ turn out fine! You think it’s okay for Mark to hit Sean!”

Spot groaned. He just wanted to talk to Race, but no one was even there for him to ask.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this to him,” Beth was saying.

“I haven’t done anything!” Julie protested, and Beth scoffed again.

“It’s no wonder he wanted to move out as soon as he could.” It sounded like Julie was crying, now, but Beth’s voice just got harder. “All these fucking years, you’ve been lamenting to me, wondering what happened to your sweet, little boy, while you watched Mark beat any semblance of vulnerability out of him! He’s not a criminal, Julie! Maybe,  _ maybe _ if he was doing something cruel or dangerous, I could understand, but he’s just—” She cut off abruptly.

_ Gay _ . Spot sighed quietly to himself. He hadn’t deserved any of the shit Mark put him through, and it wasn’t normal or natural or any of the things Spot had somehow convinced himself just to get through the days. He knew that now. He was just gay, for God’s sake.

Beth said something at a lower tone then that Spot couldn’t quite make out, and a moment later, the door opened. She walked in, wiping at her eyes.

“Hi, Beth,” he said quietly.

She smiled, though it was kind of hard to tell with the mask. “Hi, Sean.”

He didn’t really know what to say. On one hand, he was feeling a little smug— _ See? See why I can’t go home? See what you almost sent me back to? _ —but on the other, he was just relieved. He was relieved that Beth knew, and she didn’t think it was okay or normal. The Higginses weren’t the exception to the rule; Mark and Julie were.

Beth walked over to sit in the chair, by the bed—it had been moved farther away, and she didn’t move it closer. She was quiet a moment before saying, “Sean...I’m  _ so _ sorry. I had no idea.”

Spot shrugged and grumbled, “S’not your fault.”

Beth shook her head. “I’m a nurse. I’ve been  _ trained _ to see this stuff, to notice. I don’t know how I didn’t—...”

Spot didn’t either, actually, now that he thought about it. No one had ever noticed. Was it weird that no one had ever noticed?

Beth shook her head again. “I’m so sorry I kicked you out, Sean. If I had known, I would’ve  _ never _ —”

“I know,” Spot cut her off. “I coulda told you.” He took a deep breath. “I just wanna talk to my boyfriend. Can I talk to him, now?”

Beth nodded, pulling out her phone. “Yes, of course. I told your mom to take a walk, so you have some time. Do you want to FaceTime him? I can step outside.”

“Yes...” Spot took her phone. It was surprisingly hard to hold. His muscles were tired enough, just holding up his own weight. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Sean.” She got up and headed for the door. “Just shout if you need anything.”

Spot offered her a forced smile as she stepped out of the room, then searched her contacts for ‘Anthony Higgins’ and started the call.

* * *

Race was pacing circles around the couch when his phone went off. He squealed and fumbled, nearly dropping it as he swiped to accept the incoming FaceTime. It took a couple agonizing seconds to connect, and then, there he was, still bandaged and bruised, but his brown eyes were open, and a tiny smile appeared on his lips.

Race, of course, immediately burst into tears. “Oh my god.”

“Hi, gorgeous,” Spot said quietly. His voice was ragged from days of disuse.

“Oh,” Race whimpered, half laughing, half crying. “Hi, baby.”

“You okay?”

“I am now,” he sobbed. “How are you? Does it hurt? Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”

“I feel like shit, but I’m okay,” Spot told him. “I’m super medicated. Just glad you’re okay.”

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” Race said, sniffling, and wiped at his nose with the back of his free hand. “Jesus, Spot, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t cry, baby. It was an accident.”

This, naturally, just made Race cry harder. “I love you so much, Spot.”

“I love you, too,” Spot said back.

Race whimpered and sobbed again. It felt like it had been forever since he’d heard those words, and he’d been so scared he’d never hear them again—not from Spot, anyway.

“What have you been doing?” Spot asked. “God, it’s been, what—six days?”

“Uhh, mostly crying,” Race admitted, deciding not to mention the little, ‘attempted overdose’ incident—not yet, not now, not so soon.

Spot winced. “It was a pretty bad accident, huh?”

“Yeah...at least one of the guys in the other cars died...I thought you died...” And he was crying again.

“Oh, Racer—”

“You weren’t moving, I couldn’t even tell if you were breathing or not, everything was so broken and bloody, and the EMT couldn’t find your pulse—” He pressed his free hand over his mouth and sobbed. “I thought you were gone.”

There was a slight pause before Spot replied. “It’s okay, Tony. I’m still here.” He chuckled airily. “Gonna take a lot more than a concussion and some broken bones for me to leave you.”

Race laughed, though it was more like yet another sob. “I’m sorry, I just—I’ve been so scared.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

This wasn’t right; Race should be comforting Spot, not the other way around, but he couldn’t stop. “I was scared you weren’t gonna wake up, then I was scared that you would wake up, but you wouldn’t remember anything, or you wouldn’t remember me, or you wouldn’t be able to talk or move or do anything, or you  _ would _ remember me, but you’d hate me, or—”

“Tony,” Spot interrupted. He chuckled. “The first thing I did when I woke up was check on you. I don’t hate you, baby.”

“Are you mad at me at all? Cause I totally understand if you are. It was my fault—”

“No.” He shook his head. “I swear I’m not mad at you.”

Race sobbed again. He’d never been so relieved about so many things in his life. “God, I wish I was there right now.”

“Me, too. What the fuck?” Spot asked. “I feel like I’m in 28 Days Later.”

Race laughed wetly. “Nah, only six, but apparently that’s enough. Has anyone told you what’s going on?”

“Well, I know that it’s the coronavirus, and the hospital’s being, like, super careful with visitors.”

Race nodded. “Yeah, the whole state is on lockdown. Everything is closed. No one can go anywhere, except, like, grocery stores. People are going crazy. It’s nuts.”

Spot’s eyes widened slightly. “Shit.”

“Yeah, preppers are having a field day, gearing up for the goddamn apocalypse. My one friend’s brother apparently brought home forty-seven industrial size cans of green beans.” (It’s me. B. I’m that friend. It was my brother.) “Shit’s absolutely buckwild.”

“Damn,” Spot chuckled. “And to think I almost escaped this Earth just in time.”

It was a joke, obviously, but it still shot through Race like an arrow. “Yeah, maybe I shoulda hit the gas, done us both a favor.” He meant to be joking, too, but it came out pretty rigidly.

Spot blinked a couple times, then cringed contritely. “Sorry, babe.”

Race waved his free hand in front of the screen dismissively. “Nah, it’s fine. I’d rather go out with you, Bonnie n’ Clyde style, than be left hangin’ around on my own, anyhow.”

“Romantic.”

The reality of it definitely wasn’t, but Race smiled and winked anyway. “Anything for you, babe.”

Spot smiled back, suddenly looking very tired.

Race knew Spot should probably hang up and get some rest, but Race didn’t want to stop talking. He’d only just gotten him back, he didn’t want to have to let go again already. So instead, he asked, “What was it like, being in a coma? Like, did you have wack ass coma dreams, or was it just...?”

Spot shrugged. “It was like...we were in the car, and then I was in a hospital bed.”

“So you don’t remember anything in between? Like, you didn’t hear anything while you were out?”

He shook his head.

Race wasn’t really sure if he was disappointed or not. Really he was just glad Spot hadn’t been in pain. “Well, you didn’t miss much—mostly just me trying not to be super gay in front of your folks.”

Spot laughed. “You did...a bad job, apparently.”

_ Oh no… _ Race’s face clouded with concern. “What happened?”

“Mark kindly warned me that you might have big, gay feelings for me, and I was high as fuck on morphine and outed myself. It was a good time.”

Race’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god,  _ what? _ ”

“Yeah,” Spot said. “Lotta Friedman-Young-Conlon family drama in the ICU, today. You’re missing out.”

“Holy shit,” Race exhaled. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Honestly, I feel good about it?” Spot seemed surprised by this revelation. “Like, fuck him, you know? Plus, he said something about kicking my ass, and Beth went apeshit on my mom.”

Race exhaled again, easier this time. “Damn, go Beth.”

Spot hummed sleepily, smiling. “It was terrifying.”

“I bet she feels bad about kicking you out, now.”

“Yeah, she already apologized.”

“Are you gonna go back and live with her again?” Race asked, hoping the answer was ‘no’.

Spot smirked. “You kickin’ me out, Higgins?”

“Well, I  _ have _ been enjoying sleeping in your room,” Race teased.

“Been keepin’ my little girl company?”

“More like wallowing in misery, in a pile of your laundry, but sure.”

“Aww, baby.” Spot shifted, leaning back in his bed and settling against his pillows.

“Can’t blame me for missing you,” Race said, and he smiled softly. “You tired?”

Spot sighed. “I feel like all my limbs weigh a million pounds.”

“You should get some rest.”

“I know…” He paused, then continued quietly. “I don’t want you to go, though.”

Race smiled. “Who says I’m goin’ anywhere? Just close your eyes, and I’ll ramble on about bullshit, and you can pretend I’m there with you, not letting you sleep cause I can’t shut up for five minutes, just like normal.”

Spot smiled at him. “Love of my fucking life, Anthony Higgins.”

Race beamed. “Jesus, God, I love you, Spot.”

Spot propped his phone against the railing on the side of his bed and closed his eyes. “Take care of yourself, alright? Gonna need you to take care a’ me, when I get outta here.”

“Whatever you need, baby, I’ll be there,” Race promised.

That precious, sleepy smile reappeared on Spot’s lips, and Race’s chest ached. He wished he could be there, to hold and comfort him while he healed. More than that, though, he was just in awe.

The doctor had said it himself; this was nothing less than a miracle.

There would be time to reflect on that, later. Right then, he had Spot to focus on, and he had a promise to keep.

“Ninna nonna, ninna oh. Questo bimbo a chi lo do?” he sang softly. “Ninna nonna, ninna oh. Questo bimbo a chi lo do?”

* * *

The next time Spot woke up, it was because the doctor had come in to check on him again. Julie was back, having resumed her place in the chair next to the bed. Spot just wanted Race back.

“How long am I gonna have to stay?” he asked the doctor.

“At least a few more days,” the doctor told him. “We need to make sure everything continues to stabilize correctly and get you some physical therapy.”

He sighed, nodding. He supposed he couldn’t expect to wake up from an induced coma and head on back to the Higginses’ house like it was no big deal.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll have you headed home in no time,” the doctor said with one of those stupid, ‘encouraging’ smiles, and Julie perked up with a smile of her own.

The doctor finished what little was left of his exam, which consisted of having Spot push against his hands with various parts of his body, then left.

“How are you feeling, sweetie?” Julie asked.

Spot just shrugged. He didn’t feel good, but the pain wasn’t excruciating or anything.

“Soon this’ll all be done, and we can all go back to Pennsylvania and get back to normal,” he said, reaching out to pet his arm. “Well, as normal as we can, with the pandemic, of course.”

Spot pointedly met her eyes. “ _ You _ can go back to Pennsylvania—you and Mark.”

She frowned slightly. “Well, honey, if school’s online for the rest of the year, there’s no reason you can’t do it from home.”

“I could, but I’m not going to,” Spot asserted. He really shouldn’t have been surprised that she could be so dense. “I’m staying here, with Anthony.”

She sighed. “Sean, sweetie, things are getting more serious, with the pandemic. Anthony and his family might not  _ want _ you to stay.”

He scoffed. “Of course, he wants me to stay.”

She pursed her lips, either skeptical or disapproving, or maybe both. “I understand he’s your friend sweetie, and you like staying with them—”

“We’re fucking, Mom.”

Well that certainly shut her up. Her eyes got wide, a thrilling combination of surprised and horrified.

“...Or was that not clear?” Spot asked.

She sputtered. “I just— I can’t believe— It’s not— Is that why you want to stay? For  _ sex? _ Sweetie, you’re in no condition, even if it  _ was _ right—”

“ _ No! God _ ,” Spot groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “No, I don’t want to stay for  _ sex _ , Mom; I want to stay because  _ Tony is my boyfriend _ , and I want to be with him.”

“Your boyfriend,” she repeated quietly. “Do his parents know?”

He fixed her with a stony look. “Yes, his parents know. Beth knows. Everyone knows.

She switched tactics, suddenly hurt. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to us. Your own parents.”

Spot rolled his eyes. He wasn’t falling for the dramatics. “Right. Whatever, Julie.”

She was quiet, but he could see from the look on her face how hard that hit. He hadn’t even really meant to call her Julie instead of Mom; it had just come out that way.

He sighed. “Look. When I was a kid, and I asked if a boy could marry another boy, Mark gave me a black eye. So no, I didn’t tell you. Of course, I didn’t tell you.”

“He’s just trying to protect you, sweetie...” she said weakly.

“From what? The only thing I need protection from is him.”

Julie was crying quietly now, with one hand over her mouth—over her mask, technically. Spot didn’t care. Actually, he enjoyed it. He didn’t want to—didn’t like what it said about him that he enjoyed seeing her upset—but he did. He wanted her to regret the way she and Mark treated him. He wanted to punish her.

“We only want what’s best for you, Sean,” she sniffled.

“Then tell me what’s so wrong about being homosexual, Mom,” he demanded. “Explain it to me.”

“It’s just not right, Sean. Two men can’t love each other the way a man and a woman do, not properly. Physically, emotionally, it’s not right, it’s not natural.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not how it’s supposed to be,” she said.

“Because...” Spot shook his head. “...we can’t make kids? You think it’s gross? It somehow threatens Mark’s fragile-ass masculinity?”

Clearly, she didn’t have a real answer.

“I’m staying,” he said firmly.

Julie just quietly cried. It wasn’t even clear what she was upset about—that Spot wasn’t going back to Philly, that he was gay, that he had lied about being gay, that he wasn’t quietly putting up with Mark’s abuse and her enabling anymore...maybe all of it, but she deserved it, and Spot didn’t care. Did that make him heartless?


	103. Maybe Ti Amo Will Be Our Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More video chat scenes courtesy of everyone’s favorite pandemic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. I was wandering around the desert.

“I know you don’t want to, Tony, but we  _ need _ to talk about it.”

Although Race was absolutely not a fan of things that were in person now being over Zoom—What the fuck was Zoom? Where had it come from? What happened to Skype?—it did at least make it easier not to look at Hannah, and pretend he could avoid what she was saying.

“I’d rather talk about Spot...” he attempted, though he knew she wasn’t going to let it go.

“Tony,” she said firmly.

He sighed, tucking one of his legs up to his chest and bracing his foot on the seat of his desk chair. “Fine. What about it?”

“Let’s start with your thought process. What were you thinking?”

Although her version of the question was genuine, he had trouble not hearing it in Albert’s indignant tone. He shrugged. “I dunno. I just couldn’t take it anymore. It was just too much.”

“What is ‘it’, exactly?” Hannah asked, really stressing that ‘exactly’.

“Everything? All the stuff with Spot?”

“Just the stuff with Spot?”

“He wasn’t waking up. As far as I knew, I had killed my boyfriend,” Race pointed out.

“But he did wake up,” Hannah replied.

“Yeah, thank God,” Race exhaled, happy to take the exit and talk about Spot instead. “Honestly, I’m so fucking relieved. He’s doing really good. Everything is, like, testing as normal or whatever. There’s no signs of any lasting brain damage or anything scary like that.”

“That’s amazing,” she conceded, “and I’m so happy to hear it, but I’m still concerned about what happened on Monday.”

Yeah, her and everyone else who knew. Race sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Hannah. It’s fine, now. He’s okay, so I’m okay.”

“You’re not planning on trying that again?”

Race shook his head. “Why would I, now?”

“Well, Tony, he was alive when you did it.”

Unexpectedly—though honestly, it shouldn’t be unexpected at this point—tears began to itch behind Race’s eyes. “Well, sure, but I didn’t think he was gonna—  _ No one _ thought he was gonna make it.”

“But he did, Tony. You could have died for nothing.”

“Well, I know that  _ now _ ,” Race said miserably.

“I’m worried, because you didn’t think it through,” Hannah said.

“Yeah, that’s the problem with me, isn’t it?” Race sniffled. “Head empty, no think. I just make snap decisions and cry. But what was I supposed to do, Hannah? How was I supposed to keep going, knowing I killed him?”

“You could have kept going for your friends and family. You could have kept going because you are outlandishly intelligent and have a bright future ahead of you. You could even have kept going just to make sure someone was around to feed his pet bird.”

He sobbed quietly and shook his head. “You don’t get it. No one gets it. I know I made a bad choice, or the wrong choice, or whatever, but it was the only choice I could make. I couldn’t take it.”

“You did take it, Tony,” Hannah argued. “You’re alive. You took it.”

“Not on purpose,” he whimpered. “If Albert hadn’t stopped me...” Hannah remained quiet, waiting for him to continue, and he sniffled, reflexively battening on the familiar armor of humor. “Well, I certainly would’ve taken it—‘it’ being three full pill bottles and whatever else I could find in the medicine cabinet.”

“Whether or not you did it on purpose, you did it,” she said, “so it’s not true that you couldn’t do it.”

He shook his head again. She still didn’t get it, and she wasn’t going to. So he focused on something else instead. “Spot’s gonna be so mad at me when he finds out...”

“Why do you think that?”

“Cause I tried to fucking kill myself, Hannah, he’s not gonna be  _ happy _ .”

“But  _ mad? _ ”

Race sniffled. “Well, yeah. That’s, like, his default emotion.”

Hannah hummed in acknowledgement, frowning.

Race knew Spot being angry all the time wasn’t healthy, but it also wasn’t his fault, and it made sense. He wasn’t about to get into all of it with Hannah. After all, she was  _ his _ therapist, not Spot’s. “It’s fine. I don’t take it when I don’t deserve it. Usually I kick his shit right back at him.”

Hannah nodded. “We can talk about that another time. I want to know how you’re feeling. What’s going on in your head right now, today, about everything?”

Race let out a blustery exhale. “I just want him to come home. Get him outta that stupid hospital, away from his stupid family.”  _ Back here with me, where he belongs _ .

Hannah raised her eyebrows in apparent surprise at his little outburst.

“What?” he grumbled. “You know I don’t like hospitals. Or his family.”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned his family, actually.”

Race hesitated. “I guess it’s not really my business to be getting into, but believe me when I say they suck.”

Hannah nodded. “Fair enough. Do you know when he’ll be released?”

“Probably sometime next week. He’s been recovering well, but they still need to watch him for a while.”

“And will he be coming to your house, again?”

Race frowned slightly. “...Well, we haven’t really talked about it, but that’s what I’ve been figuring.”

“We never talked all that much about how living with him is going,” Hannah said, “but you seem excited to have him back, so I assume that’s a good sign.”

Race nodded. “It’s been great. I love him, he’s wonderful. He’s kind of an asshole, but he’s wonderful.”

“You  _ have _ told me that,” Hannah chuckled. “He’s sweet to you, though?”

Race nodded again. “Yeah. He can be a dick, for sure, but he’s sweet.”

“How does he make you feel about yourself?”

Race shrugged, absently twisting his hands in the hem of his t-shirt, though it felt clumsy, with his one hand in a cast. “I dunno, like I’m something worthwhile.”

“In the course of his dickery, he doesn’t make you feel bad?” Hannah clarified.

Race pressed his lips together tightly for a brief moment to compose himself, and then said very earnestly. “Oh no, his dickery makes me feel  _ very _ good.”

Hannah nodded solemnly. “Okay. I deserved that.”

Race giggled, but went on to answer her question anyway. “Nah, he doesn’t make me feel bad about myself. He’s always going on about how I’m gorgeous and smart and whatever.”

Hannah smiled. “I’m glad it doesn’t  _ all _ have to do with your appearance.”

Race pouted. “What—you don’t think I’m pretty?”

“I do think you’re pretty, but it’s nice that he appreciates you as a person,” she explained. “What about your interests? Is he supportive?”

Race thought back to the night Spot had driven him to dance, and couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, real supportive.”

They went on talking about Spot for a while, how he was getting along with Race’s friends, and this turned into a conversation about how protective Albert was and where that stemmed from, and so on. They didn’t really come to any profound conclusions, and he definitely wasn’t about to admit it to anyone, purely out of stubborn spite, but Race was glad he’d actually opened up to Hannah. Talking to her, as an objective and educated third party, was helpful. Even if it was just encouraging him to recognize and process things, it was helpful.

“Before I let you go,” she said as they were wrapping up, “I want to tell you something, and I really hope you’re able to listen and internalize it.”

“Oookay, what’s up?” ‘I want to tell you something’, ‘can I ask you something’, ‘we need to talk’—these were never preambles to good things.

“You are incredibly intelligent and surrounded by people who love you,” Hannah said. “Don’t waste that.”

* * *

After physical therapy on Saturday, Spot wanted nothing more than to take a fucking nap, but he had promised Race he would call, and he didn’t want to start breaking promises to Race now.

“I’m gonna FaceTime with Anthony,” he told his mom.

She smiled, but he could see the tight disapproval in her eyes that had sparked at any mention of Race since she’d found out about the true nature of their relationship. “Alright, sweetie.”

Spot had, of course, meant ‘ _ leave _ ’, but she made no move to do so, and he sighed, pulling up Race’s contact and starting the call anyway.

Race answered almost immediately, looking rather rumpled, but smiling anyway. “Heyyy!” he greeted cheerfully, though his voice had that specific soft, thick quality that it always did when he had just woken up or was about to fall asleep.

“Hey,” Spot returned, already feeling better and more relaxed now that Julie was outnumbered.

“Mm, how are you feeling?” Race asked, rubbing at one of his eyes with his knuckles. “You had PT, right? How was that?”

Spot scoffed, smirking. “Sucks more ‘an you on Valentine’s Day.”

Race grinned, but any answer he was going to give was interrupted by a quiet gasp and a disapproving “Sean!” from Julie.

Race blinked in surprise. “Oh, is Julie there?”

“Yes, of course I am,” Julie replied curtly.

Race smiled a tight, displeased smile, and raised his eyebrows briefly. “Great, nice, family fun time, love it.”

Spot snorted. “How are you holdin’ up, baby?”

Race groaned dramatically, and flopped onto his back in bed. “Without you? Miserable.”

“How’s your hand? Feeling any better?”

“I mean, it’s still broken,” Race said, holding up his cast—which was covered in doodles, actually pretty good doodles—in front of his phone to be seen, “but they gave me some pain meds for it, so it’s alright I guess.”

“Let me guess;” Spot gestured to the cast. “That’s an original Jack Kelly, twenty-twenty?”

Race nodded. “Oh yeah. I’m gonna save it and sell it for big bucks once he’s famous. It’ll probably be pretty stinky, but that just adds to the value.”

“Who’s Jack Kelly?” Julie asked. “Is he another friend of yours?”

“Uh, yeah,” Race answered. “Real good friend. Though not like me and Sean are ‘friends’.” He made air quotes with his free hand. “In a less gay way. Still pretty gay, but less gay.”

Julie looked thoroughly confused. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Spot said, then turned back to Race. “How’s my little girl?”

Race scrunched his eyebrows incredulously and pouted. “Uh, I’m a boy, remember? You’re gay, Sean, we just covered this.”

“Shut up and show me Lizzie, dumbass,” Spot snickered, smiling.

Race rolled off of the bed, bringing the phone with him, and crossed over to the birdcage. “Hey Lizzie, you wanna see your daddy?” He asked, opening the cage door and holding the phone up, facing in, so Lizzie could see Spot and Spot could see her.

“Hi, baby,” Spot cooed in his most annoying baby voice. “Is stepdaddy taking care of you?”

Lizzie twittered curiously and hopped closer to peck at the screen, as Race scoffed off camera. “I’m the best stepdaddy you ever met. I haven’t even hit her or anything.”

Spot choked on air. That was the absolute worst thing Race possibly could have said, and Spot thought he had never been more in love with him.

Julie did not look pleased. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Lizzie,” she said sharply, an intentional change of subject. “May I see her?”

Spot reluctantly turned his phone around so Julie could see.

Lizzie chirped loudly and pecked at the screen again. Race inhaled through his teeth. “Ooh, doesn’t look like she likes you, Julie.”

There was, to be completely honest, a small part of Spot that was annoyed at the way Race openly antagonized his parents, after all the trouble Spot went through to get along with Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. A much larger part admired Race for being the asshole Spot had always yearned to be to Julie.

“Well, she doesn’t know me,” Julie handed the phone back to Spot, “and I’m sure she misses Sean.”

“Yeah, we both do,” Race said. “Everyone, actually—my folks too.”

Spot frowned, surprised. “Really?”

Race brought the phone back up so he was in frame. “Oh yeah, they’ve been asking how you’re doing, and Mom is demanding to know what your favorite dinner is so she can make it when you come home.”

Spot wasn’t entirely sure if that was true, or if Race was just trying to rub Julie’s face in it. The Higginses  _ cared _ about him, and  _ wanted _ him. He wanted it to be true. “Tell her I want that stew she made, back when I had dinner with you guys the first time,” he said.

Race laughed. “No, come on, really. What’s your favorite, like, total, not just out of what my mom’s made?”

“No, I actually really liked it!” Spot also wanted to make Mrs. Higgins feel happy, but that was far too soft to admit, even to Race.

Race scoffed, but he was smiling. “Yeah, okay.”

“I miss you all, too, y’know?” Spot said, and he really meant it; he wasn’t just trying to piss Julie off. He hoped Race could tell.

Race smiled. “Spot Conlon, you big softie. You tellin’ me you actually like being a Higgins?”

“Rather make you a Conlon, but whatever.”

Race giggled, cheeks flushing a bit. “Is that so?”

Now, Spot hadn’t actually thought about what he’d just said before he said it, but was true, anyway. “Guess so.”

Race giggled again. “What if we smashed our names together, instead? Sean and Anthony Higlon. Or Congins.”

“Conligginslon,” Spot suggested.

Race completely dissolved into giggles then, tumbling back onto the bed.

Spot grinned. “I’m gonna blame this on the morphine, later.”

Race laughed. “Like hell you are! I got witnesses. Your dumb ass wants to marry me!”

Spot groaned, still smiling.

“Oh,” Race exhaled, beaming at the camera, “I  _ miss _ you. I wish you could come home already.”

“The doctor said, if everything goes well, I can go home on Tuesday,” Spot told him. “They want me out, because of the virus.”

Race nodded. “Makes sense. Gotta kick you out, make room for the folks that are actually dying.”

“As opposed to pretending to die, like I did.”

“Yeah, that was pretty shitty of you,” Race replied, clearly meaning to tease, though there was an edge of sadness to his voice.

Spot found himself gripping his phone a little tighter, as if Race could feel him holding on. “I’m gonna hug the shit outta you, when I get outta here, okay?”

Race snorted. “Ha, gay.”

“Yeah, no shit, babe.”

“I love you so fucking much, Sean.”

Spot chuckled. “Ti amo, Tony.”

“Ti amo, Sean.” For a second, Race just smiled. It was a small, barely there sort of smile, brimming with adoration, that Spot had come to know and love so well in the rare, quiet moments when Race wasn’t actively being a disruptive asshole. Then of course, the asshole disrupted it with an amused snort. “Is this a thing, now? Are we in some dumb YA romance novel?

“Oh, fuck off,” Spot shot back. “I learned to say ‘I love you’ in your first language. So what?”

“So you’re a  _ sap _ ,” Race giggled.

“Shut the fuck up. You’ve  _ ruined _ me.”

“Oh, but you love it!” Race laughed. “You love  _ me _ .”

“Yes, that has been well established.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not tired of hearing it yet, so.” Race stuck his tongue out.

“Fine.” Spot looked into the camera on his phone, instead of at the screen. “I love you.”

Race beamed. “Fuck, I wish I could kiss you right now.”

“I love you,” Spot repeated. “I love you.”

Race giggled. “Oh my god stop, I’m gonna cry. I love you too.”

Spot grinned. Race was so beautiful, so wild, so unlike anything else Spot had ever encountered in his life...and he was his. Spot exhaled slowly. “Well, I’m a lucky man.”

They talked for a few more minutes before Race had to go—or, more likely, just said he did because Spot was obviously about to pass out. After more ‘I love you’s from both, Spot ended the call and set his phone down on the bed next to him. When he looked up, he was very surprised to see that Julie was softly crying.

He frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Oh.” Julie sniffled. “I’m sorry I just—...it’s just—...you’re sweet with him...”

Spot only frowned harder. “Yeah. He’s my boyfriend. Of course I’m sweet with him.”

This just set Julie off crying more.

Spot tossed his hands weakly. “What do you want me to say, Mom?”

“I just—” she whimpered. “You were always so sweet when you were a little boy, and then when you got older, you stopped, but with him—...”

Spot shook his head. “Are you really this stupid, or just so far in denial you can’t see the sun?”

She cried harder. “I’m  _ sorry _ , Sean. He was just trying to be a good father.”

“Why did you let him?” This part came out a lot smaller than Spot had intended. “Why? If I was your sweet little boy, then why...?”

“He was just trying to do what was best for you! I thought it was—” Whatever the end of her sentence was, she choked on it.

“Normal?” Spot asked.

She nodded miserably. “I’m sorry, baby...”

Spot swallowed hard. “I dunno if I forgive you, Mom...”

“We were just trying to help you...” she sniffled, barely audible through her tears now.

Spot didn’t even know what to say. They hadn’t helped him, obviously. They’d just pushed him away and made him angry, and he was still gay.

“I love Anthony,” he said. “He’s my world, so you can either get used to it or go.”


	104. Multitasking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inarguably the best chapter in the fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, we love this one. Be warned, it’s somewhat explicit.

“I can’t believe they’re making us finish the semester online,” Race said, setting his laptop down on the dining room table, across from Albert’s. Mrs. Higgins had suggested—more like gently insisted—they get dressed and come down to use the dining room for a ‘school room’, rather than just staying up in Race’s room in pajamas.

Albert shrugged. “I like it better than actually going.”

Race hummed, acknowledging but disagreeing. “I’d rather be there in person. This way is so much more boring.”

“Dude, we haven’t even started, yet.”

“I know! That’s part of the problem,” he grumbled, abandoning his spot at the table to go raid the pantry for snacks. “There’s no in-between bullshit.”

“You can say ‘making out with Spot in the supply closet’,” Albert said. “I know what you mean.”

Race snickered. “Well yeah, that, but also hanging out and shit with you and Jack.”

“I’m here, dude.”

Race waved at him dismissively, half distracted as he looked through the pantry. “You know what I mean. We’re in my house, my house is boring.”

“Sure, whatever.” Albert turned his attention back to his laptop. “Just don’t talk my ear off, while we’re in class.”

Race scoffed. “Please—before, I could only harass you in Bio. Now, I can harass you  _ all day _ .”

Albert groaned. “Get in here, man. It’s almost time.”

“You want snacks?” Race asked, ignoring him and waving a box of Rice Krispies.

Albert nodded and held up his hand for Race to toss one. Race did so, and grabbed one for himself as well, along with a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, before heading back over to the table.

“If I get in trouble for eating in class, in my own dining room, I’m gonna sue,” Race announced, dropping into his seat.

First period started shortly, and it was, in a word, stupid. The teacher talked mostly about how ‘things are going to go on as close to normal as we can get’, and struggled to get anyone to participate in the classroom chat. Race mostly fidgeted with the microphone and volume button on his headphones and flicked Cheetos across the table at Albert. Second period was much the same, except this one started with, “I’m sure you heard all this in first period,” before launching into the same ‘we’re gonna pretend things are normal’ speech, and Race got the distinct feeling that the whole day was going to be like this.

It occurred to him in the ten-minute nothing between second and third period that Spot should be on the next call. This—as was always the case at the thought of Spot’s presence—brought a light, warm feeling to his chest. He wiggled a bit, needing to expel the energy, and decided to do so by throwing another Cheeto at Albert.

“Look out, here comes the president!” he announced, chucking said orange projectile through the air.

Albert caught it in his mouth, crunched it, and deadpanned, “Oh no, Mr. President.”

“Oh nooooo! It’s anarchy!” Race wailed happily.

Albert chuckled. “I’m logging into bio.”

“A’ight, me too,” Race said, clicking to open the Zoom call on his laptop.

Mrs. McNamera and a couple other randoms were already on, and Mrs. McNamera smiled when they joined. “Hi, Albert. Hi, Anthony... Are you two in the same place?”

“Yeah, we’re in Tony’s dining room,” Albert said.

Race nodded. “I kidnapped Albert, to save him from the plague.”

“Mrs. Higgins cleans more than my mom.”

Mrs. McNamera nodded. “Well, I’m sure it’s nice for you both to have the company.”

A few more people joined the call, including Petey and Race’s partner Alex. As more students joined the call, Race quickly lost interest in what was actually going on in the chat—which was mostly nothing—rather just looking to see if Spot would join. He  _ would _ join, right? Maybe he wasn’t feeling up to school yet, but surely he would’ve said something to Race if that was so. Just when he was considering texting him, his video appeared on the chat.

Race smiled, and quickly set his chat to send to Spot alone. “ _ Hey babe _ ”

Spot scrunched up his eyebrows for a second, then a little half-smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he started typing. “ _ Hey _ ”

“Sean? Where are you?” Mrs. McNamera asked, frowning. “Are you in a hospital?”

Spot fumbled around for a moment, then his microphone came on. “Uh, yeah.”

Petey’s microphone came on. “Dude, do you have the ‘VID?”

Spot laughed. “Not the ‘VID. Car wreck.”

The public chat erupted in various exclamations of concern and condolence and one guy suggesting that it was karma for going out during lockdown, with a winky face to make it clear he was joking.

“ _ Man it was like two weeks ago _ ,” Spot replied in the chat, which caused another eruption of messages as everyone expressed their shock that he had been there so long.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you’re okay, Sean,” Mrs. McNamera said, “and I’m sure we all wish you a speedy recovery.”

Spot turned his microphone back on for a second to say, “Thanks, guys.”

“Now,” Mrs. McNamera began, “we should get started. I know you’ve all heard how this is going to work in your other classes, so let’s just skip it and talk about biology.”

Despite all the students’ microphones being muted, you could see that everyone was cheering.

“Whaaat?” Race complained aloud to Albert. “No third lecture on how things are normal but different?”

“Man, shut up. I’m listening.”

Race pouted and muttered, “Mister Serious Business over here.” He typed into the chat with Spot, “ _ Albert’s no fun _ ”

He could see Spot let out a single chuckle, then type. “ _ It’s biology class, babe _ ”

Race typed back, “ _ I’m already so bored of doing school online _ .” He typed another message. “ _ It’s no fun without any of the extra stuff _ ”

“ _ What extra stuff? The hallway between classes? _ ”

Race bit his lip to quell a small, stupid grin. “ _ yeah, and the shit you and me did in the hallway ;) ;) _ ”

Spot smirked, but didn’t reply, apparently turning his attention back to the lecture. Race pouted, quickly deciding to take Spot’s ignoring him as a challenge.

* * *

Anthony Higgins: I miss you

Anthony Higgins: I miss touching you

Sean Conlon: I miss you too. I’ll be home tomorrow

Anthony Higgins: I hate that you’re not here with me now

Sean Conlon: Me too baby

Anthony Higgins: If things were normal, I’m pretty sure we’d have skipped this period

Anthony Higgins: I can think of at least a dozen things I’d rather be doing than this class, and every single one of them is you

* * *

Spot narrowed his eyes at the message. Was Race really trying to flirt with him over Zoom chat in class? Was this actually surprising?

Spot debated whether or not to respond. He really should have been paying attention to the lecture, but whatever. He was bored, and he could multitask.

* * *

Sean Conlon: I wouldn’t make you do a damn thing, doll

Anthony Higgins: I just wanna touch you again

Anthony Higgins: I wanna feel your skin on mine

Sean Conlon: That all?

Anthony Higgins: I miss the way you taste, and the sounds you make when I got my hands on you

* * *

“Hey, lemme get my hands on some ‘a those Cheetos,” Albert said, making grabby hands across the table.

Race snorted, wildly amused at the coincidental phrase matching, and handed the bag over.

“Thanks.” Albert reached into the bag, popped a Cheeto into his mouth, and crunched it loudly. “Man, are you understanding any of this?”

Race, who hadn’t even remotely been listening to the lecture, scoffed. “Yeah, duh. It’s pretty simple stuff, dude.”

Albert grumbled nonsense, angrily crunching on more Cheetos, while Race turned his attention to Spot’s latest message.

* * *

Sean Conlon: Well I don’t want to sound slutty but I’m naked under this hospital gown rn

Anthony Higgins: What do you bet I could get my clothes off without anyone on the call noticing?

Sean Conlon: Oh, I’d notice. Fucking gorgeous

Sean Conlon: The things I would do to you rn if I could

Anthony Higgins: I want you so bad baby

Sean Conlon: Desperate, are we?

Anthony Higgins: For you? Always

Sean Conlon: That’s my boy

* * *

Spot wondered if he could get the nurses to bring him some Jello. Could he use the call button for that, or was that just for emergencies? Was this an emergency? Surely, Jello would significantly aid in his recovery.

* * *

Anthony Higgins: I wanna make you feel good

Anthony Higgins: Put my mouth on every bit of your skin

Anthony Higgins: Memorize your body with my lips

Sean Conlon: You won’t be able to do anything when I’m done with you, gorgeous

Anthony Higgins: What are you gonna do to me?

* * *

“I’m hungry,” Race announced, even as he grabbed another handful of Cheetos out of the bag.

“What are we gonna have for lunch?” Albert asked.

“I dunno, we could make mac’n’cheese or sandwiches or something.”

“Oh shit, do you have the fancy mac’n’cheese?”

“If by fancy you mean Kraft Spongebob shapes, yes.”

“That’s not what I meant, but that’s better.”

* * *

Sean Conlon: Whatever the fuck I want

Sean Conlon: Hold you down and give it to you hard, you’ll just have to take it

Sean Conlon: You’re so fucking pretty like that

Anthony Higgins: Oh yeah baby

Anthony Higgins: Use me

Anthony Higgins: Treat me like I’m your toy

Sean Conlon: You’d like that wouldn’t you? Want me to fuck you like the slut you are

* * *

A nurse poked her head into the room and, knowing Spot was doing online school, asked quietly, “Everything okay? Need anything?”

“Jello?” Spot asked.

“What flavor?

“Uh, I dunno. Orange?”

“Sure thing.” She slipped back out of the room.

* * *

Spot: I’ll do it till you can’t move, can’t do anything but let me have my way with you

Anthony Higgins: I’ll beg for you, whine and moan, you make me feel so good

Sean Conlon: No one else can make you feel that way can they baby?

Sean Conlon: You’re mine

Anthony Higgins: You’re the only one I want

Anthony Higgins: You’re the best I’ve ever had baby

Anthony Higgins: I want you now

Sean Conlon: Wanna bend you over the bathroom counter so you can see yourself in the mirror, see how good you look

* * *

The sound of his name broke through into Race’s sphere of awareness, and he realized Mrs. McNamera had asked him a question.

He clicked on his microphone and said, “Uhh, the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

Albert snorted.

Mrs. McNamera sighed and repeated her question—the specifics of which shall remain unspecified, because I (B) cannot remember the last time I took a biology class—and the second time around, Race answered correctly—because, although an entire dumbass, he was also a genuinely brilliant boy.

* * *

Sean Conlon: That’s my boy

Anthony Higgins: Shut up I was distracted

Sean Conlon: Not sure what could be distracting you. You’re at home

Anthony Higgins: Yeah well I can be distracted anywhere

Anthony Higgins: Removing distraction is all well and good till you yourself ARE the distraction

Anthony Higgins: Thank god I’m a genius, or I’d have flunked out years ago

Sean Conlon: Big mistake. You’da made some serious bank as a stripper

Anthony Higgins: Isn’t that what college years are for?

* * *

“Hey Al, d’you think I’d be a good stripper?” Race asked.

Before Albert had a chance to answer, Mrs. McNamera sighed. “Anthony, your mic is still on.”

He smiled sheepishly, “Oops, sorry,” and clicked it off.

Spot let out a sigh so heavy, Race could see his shoulders rise and fall.

* * *

Sean Conlon: No

Sean Conlon: You’re mine now

Sean Conlon: I don’t want anyone else seeing you like that

Anthony Higgins: Aww you jealous baby?

Sean Conlon: Of course I’m fucking jealous

Sean Conlon: Sexiest piece of shit in the universe, everyone wants you

Sean Conlon: You’re fucking mine though and don’t forget it

Anthony Higgins: I dunno, I might need some reminding

Sean Conlon: Oh I’ll remind you

Sean Conlon: I’ll put bruises all over your pretty pale skin in the shape of my hands and mouth

Anthony Higgins: Bruises don’t last that long, baby

Anthony Higgins: What if I’m bad, and forget again?

Sean Conlon: I’ll have to remind you again, and again, and again

Anthony Higgins: I love it when you mark me up

Anthony Higgins: So everyone can see I belong to someone

Sean Conlon: Well fuck I oughta just put a collar on you

Anthony Higgins: Believe it or not I haven’t tried that before, but who knows, I might be into it

Sean Conlon: A cute sparkly thing, perfect for a little bitch

Anthony Higgins: Would I be wearing this all the time?

Anthony Higgins: Imagine what the folks at church would say

Sean Conlon: Just when I think you might run off

Sean Conlon: Something to hold onto

* * *

The nurse reappeared, knocking lightly on the door, even though it was already ajar. “One orange Jello, as ordered.”

“Thanks.” Spot accepted the cup of Jello and plastic spoon.

“You need anything else?” the nurse asked.

Spot shook his head and repeated dumbly, “Thanks.”

“Okay, just give a shout if that changes.”

He nodded, and the nurse closed the door. He turned his attention back to the class...for about five seconds, until Race messaged him back.

* * *

Anthony Higgins: Mmm, you like it when I put up a bit of a fight though

Sean Conlon: Idk if I’d call your incessant squirming and whining a fight

Anthony Higgins: Oh I’m sorry, should I be doing something more?

Sean Conlon: You could try

Anthony Higgins: Tone is hard over text, I can’t tell if you’re mocking me, or pouting that I haven’t ‘tried’ before

Anthony Higgins: Never mind

Anthony Higgins: It’s you

Anthony Higgins: Definitely mocking

Sean Conlon: I’m definitely mocking you

Anthony Higgins: You know I have to take that as a challenge, right?

Sean Conlon: Oh don’t get me wrong I’d like to see you try

Anthony Higgins: Don’t worry baby I’ll still let you win 

Anthony Higgins: It’s more fun for me to lose anyway

Sean Conlon: Little shit

Anthony Higgins: ;)

Sean Conlon: god I can’t wait until I’m all healed I’m gonna fucking wreck you

Anthony Higgins: Ughhh I wish it was now

Anthony Higgins: I WANT you

Sean Conlon: What do you want me to do to you, baby?

Anthony Higgins: I want you to make me scream, make me beg for it

Anthony Higgins: I already want you so bad, I want you to make me NEED you

Sean Conlon: Sounds like you already do, gorgeous

Anthony Higgins: I want you to destroy me

Anthony Higgins: Leave me shaking, gasping

Anthony Higgins: Fuck me till I’m so blissed out I can’t even think

* * *

Race tilted his head up and shook the bag of Cheetos over his mouth to get the last few dregs—at this point it was mostly just cheese dust, but really that was the whole point—and thought about how funny the difference between what one said sexting and what they were doing in real life often was. Spot, for example, appeared to be nonchalantly eating Jello.

* * *

Spot frowned as he took a bite of Jello. Why had he asked for orange Jello? He’d just picked a color at random, but why the one that corresponded to the worst Jello flavor. He sighed. Anyway.

* * *

Sean Conlon: I’ll do all that and more, baby.

Sean Conlon: Tie you to the bedposts and make you my little fuck doll

Anthony Higgins: Okay but real talk though

Anthony Higgins: Why the fuvbk haven’t you tied me up yet?

Sean Conlon: BECAUSE THERE WAS NOWHERE TO FUCKING TIE YOU AT BETH’S

Anthony Higgins: WHADDAYOUMEAN NOWHERE TO TIE ME??

Anthony Higgins: You coulda tied my hands you didnt have to tie me TO something!

Sean Conlon: Youd have flopped around like a dumbass fish and you know it

Sean Conlon: Fuck we need our own place

Anthony Higgins: I’d like that

Anthony Higgins: Having our own place I mean

Anthony Higgins: Though also the being tied up

Sean Conlon: Whatever you want Tony I want to give it to you

Anthony Higgins: Not to ruin the romantic notion of getting a place together, but right now I really want your dick

Sean Conlon: Fair enough

* * *

Biology class wrapped up anticlimactically, and then there was a break for lunch, as usual. Albert closed his laptop and stretched his arms out over his head.

“You didn’t pay attention to a damn thing, did you?” he accused Race.

“I was paying attention to  _ something _ ,” Race snickered.

“Whatever.” Albert stood up. “I was promised SpongeBob’n’cheese.”

“And SpongeBob’n’cheese you shall have!” Race agreed, standing as well and heading into the kitchen. Albert followed, and Race set about getting the water boiling. “Now, fair warning,” Race said as he went to the pantry to grab the box of mac’n’cheese, “I have no idea how long we’ve had this, so it could be, like, super old and gross.” He frowned. “Does mac’n’cheese even go bad, if it’s not cooked yet?”

“Man, I don’t think so.”

“Welp,” Race shrugged, “we’re gonna eat it anyway, so I guess we’ll find out.

He waited for the water to boil, then poured the pasta in and set the kitchen timer for eight minutes instead of the box’s suggested ten, because mushy pasta is the worst. Then, for lack of anything else to do, he pulled out his phone. He had a new email notification, so he went ahead and pulled that up.

* * *

To: Sean Conlon, Anthony Higgins

From: Jillian McNamera

Subject: Class Transcripts

Sean and Anthony,

The class transcripts provided to me by Zoom contain all messages sent in the chat, even those sent directly from one participant to another. Please keep this in mind in the future.


	105. Roses are Red, Noah Built an Ark, Spot’s Coming Home, LET’S FUCKING KILL MARK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Higginses and the Youngs have what amounts to a custody battle in the hospital parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Mark doesn’t actually die.

Tuesday, March 31st, 2020 was shaping up to be the longest day of Spot’s life. He had school, of course, then one last physical therapy session, and now he was just waiting to be discharged so he could go home.

Well, to the Higginses’ house, but that was ‘home’ for the time being.

Spot was quickly finding that, wherever Race was, that’s where he thought of as ‘home’. It made him feel like a sappy dumbass, but he couldn’t exactly help it. Besides, it was hardly a secret that he was crazy about Race. Fuck, he just wanted to see Race.

A quiet knock on the door announced that it was someone other than Julie, who had gone to get coffee, because she would’ve just come right in. “Yeah?” Spot called, expecting one of his nurses.

Instead, it was Beth. “Hey Sean,” she greeted with a smile as she stepped into the room.

“Hey, Beth,” he sighed.

“I just wanted to check in and have a talk before you go home.”

“Okay...?”

She closed the door behind her and came over to sit in one of the chairs, moved back a bit from the bed. “I just wanted to let you know, I’m gonna be here for you. I told your mom I’m gonna be checking in on you, and if you aren’t perfectly happy, I swear to god I’ll kick Mark’s ass.”

Spot chuckled. “Thanks, Beth, but...I’m not going back with them. Anthony’s parents are gonna let me come back, so...”

She blinked, clearly surprised. “Oh. From how your mom was talking, I thought you’d agreed to go back to Philadelphia...”

“Uh, no,” Spot said. “Nope, didn’t do that at all.”

“Hmm.” She set her mouth in a hard line, almost a frown. “You might need to refresh your mom’s memory on that. Unless you’d rather I did?”

“I will,” Spot grumbled. He had made his position extremely clear to Julie. There was no way she didn’t know.

“Well,” Beth cleared her throat, “in that case, my stance remains the same. I’ll back you up. You don’t have to go with your parents, if you don’t want to. You’re an adult; they can’t make you do anything you don’t want to. And if you don’t want to go back to Anthony’s house, you can move back in with me. No good behavior contingency. You have a home with me, if you need it.” The last part she said a beat slower, to emphasize that she was serious.

Spot returned a small smile. “Thank you, Beth.”

“Of course.” She shook her head with an exhale. “If I’d have known, you would’ve had a place with me years ago.”

“I know,” Spot said. “I mean it—thank you.”

“Of course,” she said again, “and I’m sorry I didn’t know. You didn’t deserve growing up with that.”

“Yeah, well...” He shrugged. “I didn’t know any different.”

That didn’t make it better, and he knew it. If anything, it pissed him off that he spent so long trying to explain it away and justify it.

She sighed quietly. “Yeah, I didn’t either, for a long time...”

Before she had a chance to explain, the door opened again, and Julie returned, coffee in hand.

“The doctor is getting your discharge paperwork ready,” she said, returning to her usual seat next to Spot’s bed.

Beth turned to her and spoke quietly, but firmly. “You told me Sean’s going back to Philadelphia. He says he’s staying here in Duane.”

Julie looked back and forth between them briefly before saying. “Oh, well, we haven’t really talked about it much, and I just thought it would be good for us to spend some time as a proper family again—”

“We haven’t talked about it, because there’s nothing to talk about,” Spot interrupted. “I’m staying in New York with Anthony.”

“Wh—” Julie sputtered. “Sean we’re your  _ family _ , and with things being the way they are, everything locked down and all crazy, I want you to be somewhere I can know you’re safe—”

“I don’t give a shit what you want.”

She gasped quietly. “ _ Sean _ .”

“Do you really think I’m safe with you and Mark, now that he knows I’m gay?” he asked. “Really.”

“Well...” Clearly she hadn’t thought this through, but she continued quickly anyway. “Things could be different!”

“How?” he demanded.

“We just want to help you, Sean,” she attempted, switching tactics. “Maybe...maybe if you talked to someone and we could figure out why you feel the way you do about other boys—”

Beth laughed harshly. “Are you serious, Julie?”

Julie looked startled. “Well—”

“It’s love, Julie, Jesus Christ. What does it matter if he falls in love with other boys? You’re not even religious!”

“But there has to be some reason he feels this way!”

“There is,” Spot cut in. “I’m homosexual.”

“But  _ why? _ ” She continued to protest, then almost whimpered. “Where did we go wrong?”

“I dunno, maybe when you started letting your husband hit him?” Beth replied coldly, and she shook her head. “Jesus, Julie, can’t you see how much damage you’re doing? How much you’ve already  _ done? _ ”

“I’m just trying to understand.”

Spot groaned. Honestly, could his mother be any more ridiculous? “ _ What? _ What don’t you understand? That I care about him? That I’m attracted to him? How the sex works? Be specific. I’ll enlighten you.”

“Why boys, at all? Wouldn’t it be easier to just be—...” She stopped herself, probably just short of saying ‘normal’, and instead said. “Why not just like girls?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t  _ you _ like girls, Mom?”

Julie sputtered some more. “Wh— because I don’t! It’s not decent, Sean.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

There was another knock on the door, and a nurse opened it a second later. He held up a clipboard. “Got your paperwork. You ready to get outta here?”

* * *

“You don’t have to come,” Mr. Higgins assured Race. “I understand either way, and either way, we’re bringing him home, alright?”

Although the thought of getting in the car made him a little sick to his stomach, Race shook his head and continued putting his shoes on. “I want to see him.”

“Alright.” Mr. Higgins pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll go start the car.”

Race’s excitement to see Spot didn’t quite overshadow his unease at the prospect of the car ride, but he decided to focus on that part of it, and just pray that he wouldn’t have a panic attack again. Albert had gone home after school, and Mr. Higgins had taken the day off work, and Race was going to get Spot back, whatever it took.

Mrs. Higgins walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll sit in the back with you.”

Race nodded appreciatively. “Thanks, Mom.”

They headed out to the car, and Race cuddled up to his mom in the backseat. Mr. Higgins met his gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Ready, Bud?”

Race took a wavering breath. “To ride to the hospital? No. To see Spot? Yes.”

Mr. Higgins nodded. “Just hold on to your mother.”

They backed out of the driveway and onto the road. Race took another shaky breath. He wouldn’t ever drive again, that he was pretty damn sure about, but he would have to be okay with at least  _ riding _ in a car, eventually. How else was he supposed to get anywhere? You had to get places to be able to function. Of course, right then, as he winced and cringed at every bump in the road, he was less worried about being able to function, and more worried about making it the whole ride without throwing up. He closed his eyes and tried to just think about Spot, about finally being able to hold him again.

A thought occurred to him then, and he spoke up. “Hey, can you guys try to avoid saying anything around Spot about my, uh, attempted exit strategy?”

His parents both frowned. “Your what?” Mr. Higgins asked.

“My attempted exit strategy.”

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins traded a baffled look.

“My attempted exit strategy?” Race tried again. “You know, my fancy coping mechanism in the bathroom, with the pills inside.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Higgins said softly, holding Race just a little bit tighter. “I suppose, okay, we won’t say anything to Sean.”

“I just...don’t want him to know, yet.” He said ‘yet’, but really he just didn’t want him to know. As time went on, the more horrible he felt about it. That had very nearly been the biggest and last mistake of his life, and here Spot was, awake and normal and still in love with Race. He didn’t want Spot to know how very nearly Race had ruined everything.

He could already hear the hurt accusation— _ “Why didn’t you just wait for me?” _

“Tony,” Mrs. Higgins said, shaking him gently to get his attention back. “We won’t say anything. We’ll let you decide if and when you want to talk to Sean about that.”

He exhaled quietly, relieved, and also a bit ashamed. “Thank you.”

The rest of the way to the hospital, Race tried his best to distract himself from...really, everything—everything that had gone wrong and everything that could go wrong moving forward. Right now, all that mattered was that he was getting Spot back.

Finally, after what felt like forever, they pulled into the hospital parking lot.

“Try to park near the front,” Mrs. Higgins instructed her husband. “We have to wait outside, anyway.”

Race pulled his phone out to text Spot, and Beth for good measure. “ _ We’re pulling into the parking lot _ ”

Unfortunately, Mark was already there.

Mr. Higgins found a good parking space and stopped the car, sighing as he saw Mark standing near the entrance to the hospital. “Alright. Masks on. Let’s get our boy.”

“Why is he even here?” Race complained as he unbuckled.

“Someone has to take Julie home,” Mrs. Higgins pointed out, though they all knew damn good and well that Mark was there for Spot.

The Higginses walked up to stand by the entrance. Mark offered them a stiff, polite nod, and Race just sneered at him, glad that his mask probably disguised it as a smile.

As they stood on the opposite sides of the sidewalk, Race found himself thinking about that story where two people were arguing about who owned a dog or a horse or something like that, and the guy they got to settle the argument said that the two men had to stand on opposite ends of a room and put the dog—it must’ve been a dog—in the middle. Both would call it, and they would see who the dog would go to, and that would show who it really belonged to.

It was Race, of course. Spot belonged to Race. He belonged  _ with _ Race.

“It’s nice of you all to come,” Mark said, “but not necessary. Julie and I will take him home.”

Race knew Spot had told his folks that he was going home with the Higginses, but it hadn’t sounded like Julie was taking it well—or at all, for that matter. Clearly, she and Mark were going to pull some shit to try and get Spot to change his mind and go home with them, after all. Surely they wouldn’t try to  _ force _ him to…

“Kinda weird, for you to drive him to our house,” Race said pointedly.

Mr. Higgins put a hand on his shoulder, but addressed Mark when he spoke. “We’ll do whatever Sean wants. He’s an adult and can make his own decisions.”

“We’ll do what’s best for him,” Mark said with a nod, making it sound like an agreement when it definitely wasn’t.

Race scoffed angrily. “And that’s going home with you, right? Whether he wants to or not.”

“Tony,” Mrs. Higgins softly admonished him, pulling him back behind Mr. Higgins.

“From what we’ve heard,” Mr. Higgins said, “Sean has made it very clear that he wants to come back home with us.”

“Frankly, Joel,” Mark replied, “Sean is thinking with the wrong part of his body. He needs to come home, so we can straighten him out.”

Race laughed sharply at Mark’s choice of words, but Mr. Higgins went on before he had a chance to actually comment. “What he needs is to be in a safe environment where he can properly heal, and grow, and  _ frankly _ , Mark, it doesn’t sound like that’s the sort of environment you’re providing.”

Mark smiled, a venomous, patronizing thing. “Well, we all know the type of men  _ you _ raise.”

Mr. Higgins smiled tightly, and Race could see the anger boiling behind his eyes. “Clearly you and I have different priorities.”

“Clearly.”

The conversation was interrupted by the whirring of the automatic doors opening. Julie was the first one out, carrying a pair of crutches and clearing the way for Beth, who was pushing Spot in a wheelchair. He was dressed in one of his hoodies and a pair of very loose scrub bottoms to accommodate the large cast on his left leg, and he squinted and blinked when the sun hit his eyes.

“Oh,” Race exhaled helplessly, tears springing to his eyes—guilt and pain at seeing Spot broken, unspeakable relief at seeing him at all—and he bounced a little bit in place, desperate to run to him, but knowing he shouldn’t.

Oh, fuck it.

Race broke away from his parents, and sprinted across the sidewalk towards Spot.

Spot looked up at him, eyes widening slightly. “Racer,” he breathed.

Race wailed wordlessly and flung himself forward—despite the protests of Julie, Beth, and probably everyone else in the vicinity—to crash into Spot’s lap, nearly knocking him out of the wheelchair on impact, and throwing his arms around his shoulders. With a brief, quiet grunt of pain, Spot caught him, gripping the back of his shirt. Race sobbed, holding onto him as tight as he could, and buried his face in Spot’s neck.

Distantly, he heard Mark’s outraged, “What are you doing? Get up!” but he didn’t care.

Spot didn’t seem to care either. He took a deep breath, carding his fingers into Race’s hair and cradling his head against his shoulder. “Hey,” he said on the exhale.

Race sighed quietly, not expecting the shot of bliss and comfort that came with the feeling of Spot’s fingers in his hair, and took a shaky, tearful breath to reply, slightly muffled in Spot’s neck. “Hey.”

He took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of him—although tinted with the sharp smell of hospital, it was still distinctly Spot—and if possible hung on even tighter, desperate to soak up every bit of contact he could. This was a blessing, this was a miracle, this was all he needed in the world.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Spot whispered, holding on so tightly.

“Oh, I missed  _ you _ ,” Race answered, almost a whimper through the tears that were quietly streaming down his cheeks. Jesus Christ they’d almost  _ died _ . He could’ve never seen him again, never  _ touched _ him again. Spot could’ve been gone. Everything could’ve been gone.

Race pulled back a bit to cup Spot’s jaw in his hands and kiss him deeply—at least, that was his intent. It didn’t really go according to plan, since they both had masks on, so it just ended up with Race pressing his mask against Spot’s for a moment before the two lonely brain cells in his head managed to rub together a spark, and he burst into laughter.

Spot snorted. “Yeah, okay, babe.” He took off his mask, then Race’s, then placed a hand on the back of Race’s neck and kissed him. Race melted against him. Julie was loudly protesting, something about ‘safety precautions’ and ‘unnecessary risk’, but he didn’t care. His lips met Spot’s, and he didn’t think he’d ever care about anything else ever again.

It wasn’t a long kiss, nothing particularly risqué in front of the parents, but it still left Race breathless when they broke apart moments later. He quietly sobbed into laug and breathily repeated, “I’ve  _ missed _ you.”

He ran his fingers over Spot’s cheeks, jaw, neck, shoulders, and back up into his hair—which was considerably shorter now, since the doctors had had to shave part of it for the surgery, and had presumably evened it out some, since—just desperate to touch every bit of him he could, and cement that he was really there, within reach.

“This is ridiculous,” Julie complained again, gesturing unhappily at them. “He shouldn’t be that close,  _ especially _ without a mask on.”

Spot rolled his eyes, still smiling up at Race.

“Anthony, come on, get off, you’re hurting him,” Julie attempted, but Spot shot back quickly, “No, he’s not.”

“Yeah, will you relax?” Race huffed, still more focused on touching Spot than actually giving a shit what Julie said.

“Sean, put your mask back on and let’s go,” Mark demanded. “It’s getting late, and we have a ways to drive.”

Spot tightened his hold on Race almost imperceptibly. “I’m not going with you.”

“Sean—” Julie started to plead, but Mark scoffed over her. “Come on, Sean. Don’t be stupid—”

“He’s  _ not _ being stupid.” Race interjected. “The only stupid would be going with you.”

“ _ Race _ ,” Spot hissed, tightening his hold even more.

“You had better watch your tone, young man,” Mark all but snarled.

“And you,” Mr. Higgins said coldly, “had better watch the way you speak to my son.”

Mark scoffed, glancing back and forth between Mr. Higgins and the boys. “Honestly, this is ridiculous. Sean, come on, we’re leaving. Now.”

He said it so sharply—a command, not a request, and a command that he was clearly used to being obeyed. Spot shook his head, but without any of his usual confidence. He was clearly used to obeying.

“Sean is an adult,” Mr. Higgins reminded Mark. “You don’t get to order him around.”

“Sean is my  _ son _ ,” Mark snapped in return, “and it’s my responsibility to do what’s best for him. And clearly, that is getting him away from your son and his  _ influence _ .”

“That’s a weird way to pronounce ‘cute ass’,” Spot grumbled.

Race snorted, pressing his lips together tightly so it came out more like a quiet, strangled elephant sound.

Mr. Higgins let out a blustery exhale. “Well, Mark, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m pretty sure Sean liked ass before Tony came along.”

“You don’t know him,” Mark argued. “I’m his father—”

“Bullshit. I’ve been more of a father to him in the last month than you’ve ever been.”

If the air hadn’t felt like it was going to snap from the tension, Race would’ve yelled out ‘ooh, sick burn, Dad!’ But as it was, he just watched as Mark fumed silently for a moment, then turned and stalked towards him and Spot.

“We’re leaving, Sean. Get that faggot out of your lap—” He reached out to grab Race’s shoulder, setting off a whirlwind of motion as Spot threw up a hand to block him, and Mr. Higgins grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back.

“Touch my son, and I swear to God—” But he didn’t get to swear to God, as Mark smacked his hand away with a furious look and turned back towards Race.

“I  _ said _ get up,” he snarled, and he actually managed to get his hand on Race’s shoulder this time, but only a second before Mr. Higgins fist collided with the side of his jaw.

“What the hell!?” Mark shouted, enraged, as Mrs. Higgins cried out, “Joel!” and Julie wailed, “Mark!”

“ _ Do not touch my child. Do you hear me? _ ” Mr. Higgins yelled.

Julie rushed forward, fussing at Mark’s face, where he had brought a hand up to hold onto the point of impact. Race was shocked and, quite frankly, delighted. He couldn’t believe his  _ dad _ had just  _ punched Mark _ .

“Are you out of your mind?” Mark raged at Mr. Higgins.

“Are you?” he shot back. “Sean is eighteen and of sound mind. If you take him against his wishes, it will be kidnapping, and we  _ will _ involve the police.”

Mark sputtered furiously. “Wh— involve the police—  _ You just attacked me! _ ”

“Don’t touch my child,” Mr. Higgins repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Mark opened his mouth, presumably to shout something, but stopped as his attention was broken by Mrs. Higgins, walking through the open space left by Mark’s staggering backwards, towards Spot and Race.

“Come on, boys,” she said, walking around to grab the handles of the wheelchair.

Beth picked up the crutches Julie had dropped and fell in line behind Mrs. Higgins as they made their way out to the car. “Sean knows all this,” she said, slipping effortlessly back into professional mode, “but just in case, he’s gonna need somewhere to lay with that leg elevated on some pillows or something. He can get around a little on the crutches, but he’s going to need a lot of help. That should only be for trips to the bathroom and things like that.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Race said quickly, though he was watching over Mrs. Higgins shoulder as Mr. Higgins exchanged a few more clearly tense words with Mark in parting.

Mrs. Higgins unlocked the car and opened one of the back doors. Race climbed out of Spot’s lap then, and turned back to help Spot out of the wheelchair and into the car. It was a bit of a production, with the cast. They had to scoot the passenger’s seat up.

“Thank God you’re short,” Race quipped, never one to miss an opportunity to tease.

Spot shoved him playfully and Race giggled, allowing the momentum of the shove to carry him farther than necessary as he stepped back and around towards the other side of the car. God he was so fucking happy to have Spot back. He was practically giddy. Not to mention the sick gratification of seeing his dad punch Mark in the face. It was scary and intense, but now that it was over, and no one that mattered was hurt, it was just  _ delightful _ .

Speaking of Mr. Higgins, he finally made his way over, Julie hot on his trail. “Sean?” Julie said shakily.

Spot looked up at her, and Race couldn’t even puzzle out his expression.

She leaned into the car and kissed his forehead. “I know you’re mad, and I’m sorry. We love you, baby. Please call.”

Spot sighed tightly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Goodbye, Julie,” Mr. Higgins said firmly.

“Joel,” Mrs. Higgins said, “she’s his mother.”

Mr. Higgins nodded reluctantly, and he headed around towards the driver’s seat.

Julie kissed Spot’s forehead again, then replaced her mask on her face. She was crying, of course. “I’ll talk to you soon. Please be safe.”

Spot nodded. She closed the car door, and Race buckled his seatbelt, no longer feeling the unreasonable fear that she might try to snatch Spot away—as if she could. Beth smiled and waved, then headed back up to the hospital, while Julie and Mark headed for their car.

“Well, that was fun,” Mr. Higgins said as he started the car. “You boys ready to go home?”

Spot answered quickly, “God, yes.”


	106. S O F T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft

Spot hadn’t realized he missed the smell of coconut until he was covered in it—or, rather, covered in the person who smelled like it. As soon as they arrived home, Race and Mrs. Higgins had made Spot a nest on the couch where he could elevate his leg. After dinner, Race flopped over Spot, like a leggy weighted blanket, and now they were watching NCIS reruns while Mr. and Mrs. Higgins took care of the dishes.

“Are you comfy?” Race asked, for what was probably the fifth time.

Spot brushed his fingers through Race’s hair. “Haven’t moved since the last time you asked.”

“Yeah, but is that ‘cause you’re comfy, or ‘cause I’ve got you trapped?” Race asked with a little crooked smile, wiggling a bit on top of him.

“I was comfy in this position two minutes ago, and I’m comfy in this position now,” Spot clarified. “Yes, I am sore, but you weigh about as much as an empty soda can, so don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?” Race asked, suddenly concerned, and he started to sit up. “I can sit next to you instead—”

“Racer.” Spot caught him and pulled him back down. He hadn’t been able to hold him, while he was in the hospital. He wasn’t about to let him go, yet.

“Okaaay...” Race said, like he didn’t quite believe the unspoken assurance, but settled back down anyway.

Spot brushed his fingers back into Race’s hair and left them there, ducking down to lightly kiss the top of his head. “Shit. Do you have any idea how crazy for you I am?”

Race tilted his face up towards Spot’s to look at him, smiling. “No, tell me.”

Spot chuckled, taking a moment to enjoy the warm punch in the chest that came with that smile and those pretty, blue eyes looking up at him like that. “I’m really fuckin’ crazy for you.”

Race pouted, wiggling again, like he was trying to get even closer, even though he was literally on top of Spot. “That’s not very descriptive.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“I dunno! Maybe something about how pretty and witty and gay I am.”

Spot nodded. “You are all of those things.” He moved his arms down around Race’s waist, settling them over his back.

Race hummed, resting his cheek against Spot’s chest and looking back at the TV. “You think Mark Harmon’s gay?”

Spot made a face at the non-sequitur. “Uh, I don’t know.”

Race shrugged. “Eh, I bet I could get him into bed, either way.”

“Bitch, you’d better invite me.”

He laughed, smirking up at Spot again. “Oh yeah? Mmm, I bet we three could have some real fun together.”

“Tonyyy,” Mr. Higgins whined as he made his way down the hall towards the garage, past the living room. “Stop lusting after older men. It displeases me.”

Race pressed his lips together tightly over his laughter, making a sputtering elephant noise, and buried his face in Spot’s chest. “Sorry, Dad!”

Mr. Higgins grumbled something, and Spot couldn’t be sure, but it sounded a lot like, “...fought enough  _ Marks _ today...”

Race snorted and burst into giggles, and Spot grinned. God, that  _ laugh _ .

“I can’t believe my dad  _ punched Mark. _ ” Race giggled. “Holy  _ shit _ .”

Spot held his mouth shut for two seconds before breaking into laughter himself.

“I know he’s not  _ actually _ your dad,” Race laughed, “but I feel like I’m morally obligated to say, ‘my dad could beat up your dad’.”

“I’ll allow it,” Spot shot back, “but only because my biological dad, wherever he is, beats yours by default.”

For a second, Race was quiet, and it occurred to Spot that that was probably kind of a shitty thing to say, but then Race pushed himself up a bit to shout over the back of the couch. “Hey, Mom, we don’t have to worry about brain damage anymore!” He looked back at Spot, grinning a shitty little grin. “See, we were worried about brain damage, ‘cause you weren’t being a huge dick.”

“Oh, and we all know how much you love those.”

Mr. Higgins, on his way back through to the kitchen, let out a dinosaur-esque screech.

Race let out a squeal of laughter, and collapsed onto Spot’s chest again. “Nooo!” he wailed, laughing. “No dick talk in front of my  _ dad! _ ”

“You started it.” Spot ruffled his hair and squeezed him close.

Race continued to giggle. “Well, I  _ do _ love dick talk.”

“Oh,  _ talk _ , huh?” Spot teased quietly.

Race pinched lightly at his sides. “Shut up.”

Spot squeezed him again. “I love you.”

“Uno reverse, bitch,” Race cooed happily.

Spot smiled down at him, feeling that same, warm punch in the chest again. He was never going to find another one like Race, that was for sure.

Race was smiling at him in return, then his eyebrows scrunched up a bit, his lip trembled, and suddenly he was crying.

“Woah, hey.” Spot put a hand on Race’s cheek. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Race whimpered, twisting his fingers into the sides of Spot’s shirt. “I’m sorry,” he sniffled, “I’m sorry, it’s just—...Jesus Christ, I thought I’d lost you.”

Spot shook his head, brushing the tears off Race’s cheek. “I’m right here.”

“But you weren’t,” Race whimpered, putting his hand over Spot’s. “I didn’t think I was ever gonna see you again!”

“Shh.” Spot placed a slow, gentle kiss on Race’s forehead, and Race gasped a shaky, sniffly gasp, the way people do when they’re just starting to really cry.

“If you hadn’t— If you’d—” He gasped again, “I wouldn’ve even gotten to say goodbye!”

Spot wrapped his arms around him. He supposed it made sense, now that he was home and they were out of emergency mode, for all Race’s stresses from the past week and a half to come crashing down. There wasn’t much he could do, though, besides hold him tight.

Race clung to him, sobbing quietly. “I thought you were gone,” he managed thickly through his tears. “You were gone, and it was my fault.”

Spot shook his head quickly. “No. You know I don’t blame you, right?”

“But you should,” Race whimpered.

“Why?” Spot guided Race back a little so he could see him. “What good would that do?”

“W— I dunno what  _ good _ it would do,” he sniffled, “but it  _ is _ my fault.”

“Stop that.” Spot kissed his forehead again, firmer this time. “I don’t let anyone talk about my boy like that—even you, got it? Look at me, Tony.”

Race sniffled and looked up at him.

“The only thing I care about—I mean it. The only goddamn thing—is that you’re okay,” Spot told him. “I don’t care what happened to me. I don’t care whose fault it was. I don’t give a single shit. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.”

Unfortunately, this just made Race cry harder.

Spot pulled him back into his arms. “I love you so much, Anthony.”

“I love you too!” Race wailed, burying his face in Spot’s neck.

Spot cradled the back of his head and dropped a kiss onto his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Race cried for another minute or so, but quieted soon enough, till he was just sniffling. “‘M sorry I almost killed us,” he said quietly, muffled against Spot’s neck.

Spot sighed. “Don’t worry about it, baby. It’s over, now.”

Race sniffle-laughed. “‘Don’t worry’ he says, like I been able to do  _ anything _ else for the past eleven days.”

“Well, that’s the past eleven days,” Spot chuckled.

“Yeah,” Race replied. “Everything’s different, now.” There was an odd catch in his voice that Spot couldn’t quite place. “Fuck,” he exhaled quietly, shifting so he could wipe at the tears on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get super depressing on your first day home.”

Spot offered a small smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

Race chuckled wetly. “You just said that.”

“I know.” Spot ran his fingers back up into Race’s hair. “Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

Race continued to worry about it. It  _ was _ his fault, whether Spot blamed him or not—and maybe he was only saying he didn’t, or maybe he thought he didn’t, but subconsciously he did, or maybe he didn’t now, but once he found out about Race’s  _ fancy coping mechanism _ , he would get mad, and it would all come out sideways, and he would decide he  _ did _ blame him. Spot was home now, and thank fucking god for that, but Race wasn’t out of the woods, yet.

With Race’s help, Spot got into bed, and Race brought Lizzie to him before going upstairs to change into pajamas. Mr. Higgins stopped him in the hall.

“Hey, Tony.”

“Yyyeah, Dad?”

Mr. Higgins stepped in close to him and spoke quietly. “We know you’re probably wanting to spend the night with Sean, and we’re okay with that. It will be better to have someone there in case he needs something, anyway. Just be good, okay? No funny business.”

Race exhaled, relieved. He had been planning to ‘go to bed’, then sneak back down into Spot’s room a little later, and wake up early the next morning to sneak upstairs again, but this way sounded much less exhausting. “Okay, cool. Yeah, we’ll be good.”

Mr. Higgins ruffled his hair. “I know you will, Bud, and I’ll feel better knowing you’re in there looking out for him.”

It was silly, but Race felt a small swell of pride at being the one to take care of Spot, when so often now Spot had been taking care of him. With a smile, he headed upstairs to change.

As luck would have it, Spot’s injuries prevented Spot from traversing much of the house, and therefore from discovering the aftermath of Race’s ‘attempted exit strategy’. He hadn’t seen the broken back door, covered with a trash bag, or the lack of a door on Race’s bathroom upstairs. Of course, this probably wouldn’t last long, and Race needed to figure out how to tell him, sooner rather than later. The longer he waited, the more angry Spot was likely to be. Of course, maybe if he waited, like, years, he could drop it casually into a conversation, and it wouldn’t be a big deal anymore. Or maybe, if he waited, like, forever, he could just forget it happened at all, and no one would have to be angry. Except, of course, Albert, who was already angry.

Race shook his head, like his brain was an Etch-a-Sketch that needed wiped clean. He had to tell Spot, he just didn’t know how.

He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from his dresser and changed quickly, grabbing his phone charger as well, before heading back downstairs to Spot’s room. Spot was in bed with his broken leg elevated on a mound of pillows and his other knee bent, Lizzie sitting on it while he stroked her little chest. Race smiled softly. Jesus, it was good to have him back. It was almost like everything was normal and okay.

“She missed you,” Race observed, shutting the door behind him.

“I missed her,” Spot said. “It was too quiet in the hospital—not enough screaming.”

Race chuckled, coming over to climb onto the bed next to him. “They must’ve put you on the ‘no screaming’ floor.”

“Maybe.” Spot reached out to put his arm around Race, and Race cuddled up to his side happily. “You sleeping here, tonight?”

“Is that okay?” Race asked with mild, fake indignance.

Spot scoffed. “No, get away from me, I can’t have a faggot with a cute ass in my bed.”

Race laughed. “Well, shit, guess you’d better get out too, then.”

Spot scrunched up his nose. “My ass is not  _ cute _ ,” he protested.

“You’re right,” Race teased, “it’s sexy as hell.”

Spot chuckled. “Better.”

Lizzie tweeted, and he smiled at her, stroking Race’s arm with the backs of his fingers.

Race hummed softly, just happy to have Spot near, touching him. “And Dad said it’s cool if I’m in here, so we don’t even have to be sneaky.”

“You suck at being sneaky, anyway.”

Race gasped in mock indignance. “Fuck you, I’m very sneaky!”

“You’re loud,” Spot said. “I’m gonna have to buy you a farm to keep the neighbors from hearing you.”

Race snorted, rolling onto his side to face Spot, which conveniently brought him even closer to him. “As if I’m not gonna have a button installed on our bedside table to deploy a mass social-media spam message and blast announcement over loud speakers installed on the roof to let everyone know every time you make me cum.”

Spot laughed, “What the fuck?”

“No, you’re right; we should have one in every room.”

“You’re insane.” Spot reached out to take Lizzie onto his hand. “Hey, will you take Lizzie back?”

“Yeah,” Race replied, sitting up and reaching out to hold two fingers in front of her belly, so she would step up onto his hand. He swung his legs over off the bed, and stood up to cross the room and put her back in her cage. “Night, scream-y lady,” he said as he latched the door.

She screamed at him.

“Thanks,” Spot said. “Can you, uh...help me change clothes, too?”

Race grinned, coming over to Spot’s side of the bed. “Ooh, I never thought you’d ask.”

Spot rolled his eyes, pulling his hoodie off over his head. “Honestly, I don’t even think I have any pants that will go over this thing.” He tapped on his cast.

“Oh darn, no pants,” Race teased, taking Spot’s hoodie from him.

“Just help me get these damn scrubs off. I’ll sleep in my underwear.”

“You’ll have to stand up, so I can get ‘em off you,” he pointed out, offering his hands to help pull Spot to his feet.

Spot turned and took his hands, grimacing as he carefully stood.

“Y’alright?” Race asked, taking a moment to help him steady.

“Yeah,” Spot grumbled. He was clearly not used to relying on others.

“Here, hang on.” Race moved Spot’s hands to his shoulders, so he could still use him for stability, and Race could have his hands free to get his pants off. The complicated part, of course, was that Spot couldn’t step out of the pants, so Race had to pull them all the way down to the floor, but that made it so Spot couldn’t hold onto his shoulders.

“Okay,” Race said, once he got his fingers hooked into the waistband, “I’m just gonna speed-run it, just go real fast, so I can get ‘em down, and then help you balance again before you fall over.”

“Uh, yeah, okay.” Spot nodded.

“Okay, ready? Try to hold still so it goes smoother.”

Race moved quickly, pulling the scrubs to the floor, and Spot right with them. Spot grabbed onto Race as he went down, in an effort to catch himself, but Race just went down too, with a surprised yelp, not having expected his brilliant plan to go so badly.

Spot groaned and rolled off Race. “Fuuuuuck.”

“Shit! Baby? Are you okay!?” Race asked, ignoring the dull hurt in the back of his head, where it had collided with the wall.

“Yeah, I’m alright—”

The door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Higgins appeared. “Are you two okay? What happened?” Mrs. Higgins asked.

“I was trying to get his pants off,” Race grumbled, sitting up and putting a hand to the back of his head.

“To clarify,” Spot said, sitting up as well, “he was taking my pants off, because I don’t want to sleep in them.”

Mr. Higgins chuckled as Mrs. Higgins circled the bed quickly to help Spot up. “Why did you fall over?” she asked.

“I tried to take them off quickly,” Race explained, “so that he wouldn’t have to balance for long.”

“I see that went well,” Mr. Higgins said.

“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Higgins brushed her hand briefly over Spot’s hair, like she did so often with Race, “why didn’t you sit down to take them off?”

Spot looked up at her and blinked a couple times. “...Oh.”

Race smiled, absolutely delighted to see his mom being all sweet and soft and loving with Spot, the way she was with him. There was a small pang of jealousy, and for a moment he worried that Spot might become the favorite, but that was dumb.

Speaking of dumb. “How were we supposed to get his pants past his butt if he’s sitting down?”

Mrs. Higgins looked over at Race, like he was the dumbest creature alive, and she loved him so much—which he was, and she did. “Get the pants past his butt, before he sits down.”

“Well, they’re off now,” Spot said.

Mrs. Higgins sighed and shook her head fondly. “Tony, help me pick him up.”

Race nodded, standing up and reaching for Spot. It was a bit of a production to drag him up, seeing as, although compact, he was built like a brick wall. They did it, though, and got him back into bed with minimal trauma.

“There, that’s better.” Mrs. Higgins said, as Race climbed onto the bed next to Spot.

Mr. Higgins helped arrange their blankets as Mrs. Higgins came back around to that side of the bed.

“Bet the hotel staff didn’t tuck you in this good,” Race quipped to Spot, and Mr. Higgins chuckled.

“Do you mean ‘hospital’, Bud?”

Race waved at him dismissively. “Same onions, different kettle.”

Spot made a face. “What?”

“ _ Goodnight _ , boys,” Mrs. Higgins said, smiling. “Shout if you need anything, okay?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Higgins,” Spot replied politely.

She shut the door behind her and Mr. Higgins, and Race let out a blustery exhale. “Well, you’re not the first boyfriend whose underwear my folks have seen, but you’re the first one who was  _ in _ the underwear at the time, so...”

Spot turned his head to look at him, apparently unfazed by this information. “C’mere.”

Race blinked. “Babe, I’m literally laying right next to you. Unless you want me to get  _ on top _ of you again—”

“Dumbass.” Spot wrapped his hand around the back of Race’s neck and pulled him into a kiss.

Race hummed happily against his lips, not at all surprised, but making a noise to that effect anyway.

“I’m gonna sleep so much better, with you here,” Spot said against Race’s lips.

“Mm-hmm,” Race agreed. “I’ll be like the world’s sexiest teddy bear. Except I’m not a bear.” He gasped quietly, pulling back a bit to make gleeful eye contact with Spot. “A teddy twink!”

Spot laughed quietly. “Yeah, okay, teddy twink.”

Race beamed. He loved hearing Spot laugh, and he loved when it was because of him. Spot leaned in again, this time pressing his lips against Race’s forehead. It was almost painfully soft, nothing but pure, unadulterated affection.

Race sighed quietly, happily. “I love you so much, Sean.”

“I know.” Spot kissed his forehead again. “I think we’re the real thing, gorgeous.”

Race smiled. “Whaddayou mean ‘real thing’?”

“I mean, I think we’re too young to commit to anything, but I can see this working out.” Spot gestured between them. “I can see us working out. I think I’m gonna want you in my life for...a long time.”

Race’s smile broadened, and he felt a heavy warmth spread out from his chest. “Really?”

Spot made a face and said sarcastically, “No, I’m just saying that because I think it makes me sound cool.”

Race laughed, rolling over so he was halfway on top of Spot, and slung his arm up over his chest to play his fingers gently along Spot’s jaw. He leaned in to kiss him again, gently and adoringly.

“I’m gonna love you forever,” he murmured against his lips.


	107. April Feels Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot is bad at communication, and Race apologizes a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A grrreat chapter.

As he had every April First for the last five years, Race woke up early to get a head start on his bullshit. See, April Fool’s Day was sacred in the Higgins house—at least, to two of its occupants. Prank wars raged annually between Race and Mr. Higgins and poor Mrs. Higgins was really just caught in the crossfire.

First things first, after quietly sneaking out of the room so as not to wake Spot, Race set a strip of packing tape across his parents’ bedroom door, right at face height for his father. Mrs. Higgins was about a head shorter than her husband, so there was a good chance that she would escape unscathed, but that was just fine as far as Race was concerned—collateral damage was fine, but this war wasn’t about her. Next, he headed upstairs to get the things he needed—hidden in the back of his closet—for his other plans. When he got to his room, he stopped short in the doorway, and let out a gasp of delighted outrage. All the contents of his room had been mirrored; his bed was where his desk had been, and his desk was where his bed had been, the dresser was next to the door, rather than on the opposite wall by the window, etc. etc. Mr. Higgins must have snuck up there to do it last night, after Race had gone to sleep in Spot’s room. Amazing, masterfully done. 

Chuckling, Race headed to his closet and found the plastic bag of mischief materials put together over the past few months in preparation—four family size packs of hot cocoa mix, two dozen plastic dinosaurs, a ring of plastic key-shaped teething toys, and a mini smart-speaker. It wasn’t his most ambitious year, but he’d certainly done worse.

* * *

Spot woke up to Race crawling back into bed with him. “Hey,” he grumbled sleepily, “where’ve you been?”

“Shhh, don’t worry about it.” Race cooed, cuddling up next to him.

Figuring he had just gone to the bathroom and was being unnecessarily cryptic, Spot wrapped an arm around Race’s shoulders and settled back in, turning to rest his lips against the top of Race’s head. He was glad to have some more time before they had to get up. It seemed that Race, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with energy. The damn boy wouldn’t stop moving—shifting around, wiggling his legs, half rolling over, and then rolling back again.

“Baby,” Spot sighed, tightening his hold to try and slow Race down.

“Are you excited?” Race whispered loudly, if anything just spurred into wiggling more.

“About what?”

“It’s April, you fool!” he replied gleefully.

“It’s— Oh, God,” Spot sighed. April Fool’s Day with Racetrack 'Spring-Loaded Disaster’ Higgins was bound to be an experience.

Race giggled, wiggling and rolling until he was halfway on top of Spot, with his face about an inch away from his. “Dad’s already come swinging straight out the gate. He flip-flopped my room!”

“He what?”

There was a light  _ creak _ from the hall as a door opened, a surprised shout, then...crinkling? Race burst into giggles, and whispered. “Score one for me.”

Moments later, there was a knock on the door, then it opened to reveal Mr. Higgins with a wad of packing tape. “You almost beheaded me, Tony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Higgins,” Spot mumbled. “Tony’s been here with me the whole time.”

Race beamed and burst into giggles. “Yup, I’ve been right here, sleeping.”

“Liars!” Mr. Higgins turned. “Rachel, the boys are lying to me!”

Mrs. Higgins sighed as she passed her husband in the hallway, heading for the kitchen. “It’s too early for lies, I want coffee.”

For some reason this just made Race giggle more, and he dropped his head to bury his face in Spot’s neck.

Mr. Higgins went on his way, and Spot closed his eyes, hoping to catch what little sleep he still could before—

“ _ Why _ is there hot chocolate in the coffee container!?”

Race burst into giggles again, muffled in Spot’s neck, and his lips buzzed ticklishly against his skin.

So much for a peaceful morning.

* * *

By the time lunch rolled around, Spot was ready for a break. Seven plastic dinosaurs had already been found, two of which were in his underwear drawer and between the couch cushions, respectively. He’d been using Race’s laptop for school, since he was pretty much confined to the couch, while Race used the computer in the office. This should have translated into more peace and quiet, but in actuality, it translated to Race whining loudly about being in a different room.

“I didn’t see you for so long, and now I’m just not gonna see you again?” Race complained, making a beeline for the couch as soon as AP Bio was over.

“You just saw me,” Spot argued, setting the laptop on the coffee table to prepare for the incoming collision.

“That doesn’t count!” Race protested, putting one hand on the back of the couch to vault over and land on Spot, only narrowly missing his injured leg.

“Careful!” Spot groaned. “I don’t want another punctured lung!”

“Oh shit, sorry,” Race said quickly, halfway getting up.

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

“I thank God every day,” Race teased.

“ _ I _ thank God every day,” Spot shot back, brushing a hand over Race’s hair.

Race opened his mouth to reply, but the voice Spot heard was, surprisingly, Albert’s.

“Glad to see the separation has left you two just as disgusting as ever.”

Race looked up at the doorway to the hall in surprise. “Albert? What the hell?”

“I was worried I might never again have the experience of you two making me gag.”

“Fuck off, Red,” Spot said, but there was no bite to it.

Surprisingly, Albert replied. “It’s good to see you in one piece, man.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Race pushed himself up off Spot, sitting back on his heels so he could look over the back of the couch easier. “Dude, what are you doing here?”

Albert frowned. “I came to check on you, obviously.”

Race’s eyebrows dipped down, just barely into a frown, but they quickly lifted back to neutral. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” Albert said, but his gaze was boring into Race like Race had slept with his nonexistent wife or something.

“Aaare you gonna hang out for lunch?” Race asked him.

Albert seemed to consider this for a second. Then, “Sure.”

“Cool,” Race looked back at Spot, “Whaddayou want to eat?”

He shrugged. “Just, like, a sandwich is fine.”

“A’ight.” Race got to his feet and circled around the couch. “You wanna help make sandwiches, Al?”

“Sure,” Al replied, turning to follow him back into the kitchen.

* * *

“Dude what the fuck why are you here!?”

“I told you,” Al said. “I’m checking on you. Did you really think I was just gonna leave?”

“Well, no.” Honestly, he should’ve expected this from Al—Always his protector, always looking out for him. “But dude, don’t say anything, okay?”

Albert frowned. “What?”

“To Spot. Don’t say anything.”

“Yeah, I got that. Why not?”

“I haven’t told him yet.” Race admitted quietly, knowing Albert was going to be mad.

Sure enough, Albert smacked him upside the head. “Why not?”

Race yelped and whined. “I’m not ready! He only just got home, things are  _ good _ . I don’t wanna—”

“What’s wrong with you? Tony, he  _ loves you _ .”

“I don’t wanna fuck it up! It’s gonna bring everything down if I tell him now!”

“So what’s your plan?” Albert asked. “Never tell him? How’d you explain the back door?” He gestured to said back door, still shattered and covered with a trash bag. “Your bathroom door?”

“He hasn’t really been on this side of the house since he got back...” Race mumbled. He knew he had to tell him, and soon, he just  _ really _ didn’t want to.

“You’re an idiot,” Albert scoffed. “You know the longer you wait, the worse it’s gonna be. He deserves to know.”

“I know!” Race whined, rolling his upper body to the side, like he could dodge the truth of what Al was saying, and he turned to the fridge to get stuff for sandwiches. “I know. Just...not yet.”

Albert grabbed his shoulder and turned him the rest of the way around, carrying through his momentum, so he was facing him again. “Jesus Christ, Tony, haven’t you hurt him enough?”

“Haven’t I—?” Tears sprang to Race’s eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Albert pushed off a little as he let go of Race’s shoulder, shaking his head in something that looked too close to disgust for comfort. “Nothing, I guess.”

“No, if there’s something on your mind, fucking say it,” Race snapped, lurching into indignant anger in an effort to steer away from bursting into tears.

“You’re fucking selfish, Race,” Albert snapped back. “You’re supposed to love this guy, and you can’t even tell him the truth?”

Race’s lip trembled, and he glared, leaning into the anger, instead of the stab of guilt and shame. “I’m  _ going _ to tell him. I just want to give him time to get settled first. It’s only been a day, Jesus.”

“Bullshit. Then he’ll either be ‘doing so well you can’t bear to ruin it’, or he’ll be having a rough time and you won’t want to make it worse.”

“I’m gonna tell him!” Race insisted again. “I just don’t want to—” He jumped, startled by a sudden  _ crack _ ing thud from the doorway, and looked over to see Spot, standing there on his crutches, having just smacked the wall with one of them.

“Albert,” he said lowly, “I would thank you kindly to not make my boyfriend cry.”

Albert scoffed and muttered something low enough that Race didn’t catch it. There was only a moment’s reprieve, though, before Spot turned to Race.

“What’s he talking about?”

Race glanced at Albert, and Albert crossed his arms, scowling at him flatly with a slight arch to one eyebrow, like he was daring him to lie, and he almost did without thinking, like it was a reflex. But what would he even say? What  _ could _ he even say? Spot could definitely see the busted back door from where he was standing, though he seemed focused enough on Race that he might not have really noticed yet, but it didn’t matter.

Race swallowed nervously, and he could tell he was about to burst into tears, but he tried to ignore it. “Some uh... Some stuff happened, while you were still in the hospital. When we thought you weren’t gonna wake up...”

“Like what?”

_ Fuckfuckfuckshitfuck _ .

He looked to Albert again. “Al, do you wanna maybe give us some space?”

“I don’t trust you to be honest, if I’m not here,” Albert replied flatly.

Race didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but Albert was definitely ruining his game. He looked back at Spot. “I was really scared, okay? I didn’t know if you were coming back—everyone thought you were as good as gone already—and if you were, whether you would be the same, or hate me, or—” Hr was babbling and stalling, hoping in the back of his mind that if he got worked up and pitiful enough before he actually came out with it, Spot would offer some preliminary forgiveness, or promise that he wouldn’t be mad.

“What Race is trying to say,” Albert interrupted, “is that he made me break down two doors and literally force his mouth open to keep him from drinking a whole bottle of pills.”

Aaaaand oof. There it was.

Race stayed quiet, waiting, terrified, for a reaction from Spot.

Something not quite readable flashed in Spot’s eyes, and then his expression hardened. “That’s not funny.”

Ah, and there was another reason not to tell him today. On April fucking Fool’s Day.

“No, it’s not,” Albert agreed flatly.

Spot stared at him for a couple seconds, then back at Race. “Is that true, Anthony? And whatever you tell me had better be the goddamn truth.”

Race opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it again and swallowed, and tried again. “I’m sorry, I just, I felt so hopeless, I didn’t know what to do—”

“ _ Anthony _ .”

Race burst into tears. “Yes, I was gonna—...I’m  _ sorry _ .”

Spot just looked at Race, and even though he wasn’t saying anything, Race knew—it was obvious enough from the sharp glint in his eye and the tension in his jaw that Spot had never been this angry at Race before.

“I’m sorry,” Race said again, thickly. “I was just so scared. I thought I’d killed you, I—”

“You were wrong.”

“I know!” he sobbed. “I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve just kept waiting, I shouldn’t’ve tried to—” He cut off, choking on tears, and sniffled. “I just wanted to stop hurting.”

Spot took a deep breath, then turned back towards the living room. “This is going to take more than a lunch break.”

After casting a miserable, not quite accusatory look at Albert, who just shrugged, Race followed Spot. “I’m sorry. I was gonna tell you, just not yet.”

“Why?”

“You only just got out of the hospital,” he sniffled. “I wanted to give you some time to, I dunno, be okay again.”

“Why’d you  _ do it _ , Anthony?” Spot clarified.

“Wh— I thought I’d  _ killed you _ , Spot! I couldn’t live with myself!”

“ _ You were wrong _ .”

“I know that now,” he whimpered, “but I  _ thought _ —“

Spot came to a stop just before the archway to the living room, turning to actually look at Race for the first time since leaving the kitchen, and the look on his face stopped Race’s train of thought dead in its tracks. He looked...furious, but not in the hot, explosive way Race was so accustomed to. It was a quiet, cold, held-back sort of rage, and it was honestly terrifying.

Spot had promised he would never hit Race...again...and Race had believed him, but now he was starting to wonder. As soon as the thought occurred to Race, he felt sick to his stomach, guilty he’d even thought it, but he had thought it, and now it was just there, sitting in the back of his head.

“Sean...I don’t even know what to say. I’m  _ sorry _ .”

“I don’t care,” Spot said said, and by God, it sounded like he didn’t. “Don’t  _ ever _ do it again.”

Race blinked, trying hard not to start crying again. “I— I won’t.”

“ _ Swear _ you won’t,” Spot insisted. “Swear on my life.”

“I—“ he frowned. “‘On your life’? What does that even mean?”

“You know what it means, Anthony.”

He honestly didn’t, but he wasn’t about to argue, with Spot looking at him like that—like he was about to explode, or suffocate, or maybe suffocate Race… “I swear on your life,” he said, tearfully obedient, “I won’t do it again.”

Spot reached up, towards Race’s face, and instinctively, Race flinched. Just the tiniest bit, but it was there, and he hated himself for it. Spot froze with his hand a few inches away from Race’s cheek, then slowly lowered it back down to his side, and now Race  _ did _ burst into tears again, reaching out desperately to grab Spot’s hand, and pulled it up to his face, pressing it against his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, babbling, “I don’t know what that was, I’m sorry.”

Spot opened his mouth like he was going to speak, but nothing came out. He exhaled instead, blinking and shaking his head slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Race sniffled again, starting to feel like a sad, broken record.

Spot pulled his hand back and returned it to the grip on his crutch. “I’m going back to the couch.”

Race whimpered quietly and followed him. “ _ Please _ talk to me.”

“I don’t know what else to say, Anthony.”

“What else? You’ve barely said anything!”

“What do you want me to say?”

He  _ wanted _ him to forgive him—to hold him tight and promise it was all okay and soothe away the guilt and the fear and the worry, but forgiveness you have to outright request is hardly forgiveness, now is it? “I don’t know,” he answered miserably.

Spot rested his crutches against the coffee table, holding onto to the arm of the couch for balance, and crashed back down onto the couch, groaning slightly. He dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it all spiky, and Race couldn’t help but think of a hedgehog putting up his quills to scare him away. He went over to sit on the opposite end of the couch—by the arm, rather than right up next to Spot as he normally would.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?” he requested hesitantly, knowing it couldn’t be anything good.

Spot blinked a couple times—at the floor in front of him, not at Race. “I couldn’t even have gone to your funeral.”

Race grimaced unhappily and very nearly said ‘I’m sorry’ again, but he hoped Spot would keep talking, if he stayed quiet. But he didn’t. He kept staring at the floor, like he was deep in thought, but he wouldn’t say anything.

“Spot...” Race pleaded quietly, placing a hand on the couch between them, like he was reaching out to him, but too afraid to fully commit, and get ignored.

Without actually looking, Spot reached over and found Race’s hand with his own. Race let out a quiet, relieved whimper, and held on tight. The contact was reassuring, despite the still murderous look on Spot’s face. Race sort of wanted Spot to look at him, but he was sort of glad that look wasn’t directed at him.

“Are you mad?” Race asked quietly. It was a stupid question, he knew Spot was mad—of course he was mad—he just wanted him to talk.

He grunted. “Dunno if ‘mad’ is the word.”

“What do you think  _ is _ the word?”

“I don’t think there is one.”

Race wasn’t really sure what to do with that. They couldn’t exactly talk through it if Spot wouldn’t talk, though he couldn’t really blame him. He couldn’t imagine how he would react if he just found out Spot had tried to kill himself; it certainly wouldn’t be pretty. He wanted to say he was sorry again, but he’d already said it so many times, he didn’t think it would help.

Spot shook his head. “I can’t deal with this right now, Anthony. We have school.”

That felt like a punch in the gut. It was reasonable, of course, it made sense, but Race had never been great friends with ‘reasonable’ and ‘making sense’.

“Do—” he sniffled, willing himself not to cry more, “do you want me to leave you alone...?”

“I don’t care.”

Right, make that a one-two punch, lovely.

Race sniffled again and stood up. He didn’t  _ want _ to leave, he wanted to stay and continue being pitiful until Spot cracked and properly talked to him, but he also didn’t want to make Spot any more upset than he already was. Reluctantly and miserably, he returned to the kitchen, where Albert was just finishing up making three sandwiches.

Race sat down at the counter. “He won’t talk to me.”

Albert handed him a sandwich and a Capri-Sun. Where did the Capri-Sun come from? He hadn’t had them when he walked in the door, had he?

“Whatthefuck,” Race mumbled, “did you just shit this out or something?”

Albert nodded. “Fresh from my ass.”

Race was too miserable to properly lean into the bit, so he just poked sadly at the foil pouch. “Why’d you have to go and tell him  _ now? _ Today’s supposed to be a good day, and now it’s  _ ruined _ .”

“He’s been awake for a week, Race,” Albert pointed out. “You had a  _ week _ to tell him.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t, and now everything is ruined,” Race grumbled. He knew it was his fault, it was  _ all _ his fault, but he would much rather shove the blame off on Albert instead.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Albert said, taking a bite of his own sandwich and gesturing to the remaining one. “You gonna take that to him, or should I?”

“No I’ll take it.”

He grabbed the remaining plate and headed back for the living room. Spot looked up when he appeared.

“Got’cher lunch,” Race said, gesturing with the plate as he approached.

Spot nodded. “Thanks, baby.”

Race nodded and handed it over. He hoped that Spot would make some gesture—touch his hand, invite him to sit, anything to indicate he wanted him there, but there was nothing.

“Give a shout if you need anything,” Race offered, subdued, and headed for the office, miserable and dejected enough to entirely forget about his own sandwich and Albert in the kitchen.

* * *

Even after the Zoom call had ended for his last class of the day, Race hesitated to leave the office. What if Spot still didn’t want to ‘deal with this’? What if he wouldn’t talk to Race? Didn’t want to see him? Race’s usual ‘I don’t give a shit, he’s gonna have to deal with it and deal with me’ bravado was bogged down by his guilt and shame. His little ‘attempt’ may not have done much damage to him, but it had certainly done a number on everyone that he loved.

After a couple minutes, he could hear Spot get up and start down the hall towards the bathroom. Crutches aren’t exactly a stealthy mode of transportation, after all. Then, a clatter, a light  _ thump _ , and a hushed, “Damn it.” Race quickly got up, and went out into the hall. Spot had dropped one crutch and slumped against the wall to avoid falling.

“You okay?” Race asked, concerned.

Spot scoffed, and Race hesitated, stopping short. Spot looked at him, apparently surprised, then sighed. “No...Tony, I guess I’m not okay.”

“I...do you want me to help, or...?”

“No. I want to lean against this wall for the next eight to twelve—” He sighed again, dropping his head into his free hand. “Yes. Please.”

Race came over quickly and grabbed the dropped crutch to hand it back to him.

“Thank you. Sorry,” Spot said curtly.

Race replied unhappily, “Of course.”

“Can you help me to the bathroom? I’m kinda about to piss myself.”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” Race perked up a bit at this request—even if it was only for practical purposes, Spot wanted his presence and his contact. He wrapped an arm around Spot’s waist and helped steer him into the bathroom. “I’ll wait in the hall, if you need me,” he said.

Spot nodded, thought he seemed a lot more focused on pissing than on Race, so Race just nodded as well and shut the door behind him. He waited not-quite-patiently in the hallway, planning how to segue into conversation without devolving into another useless spiral of miserable apologies. As much as he wanted Spot to talk through it with him, so things could be okay, he was absolutely terrified that talking through it would result in things being  _ not _ okay.

Spot emerged from the bathroom looking slightly less stressed, if not particularly happy. “Help me back to my room?”

Race nodded and quickly moved to do so, wrapping his arm back around Spot’s waist. He wasn’t sure how much help he actually was, but he wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to be with Spot, especially if it made Spot feel a little more secure. They made their way down the hall and into the guest room, and Race set about getting Spot comfortable in bed.

“You comfy?” Race asked, as soon as he got Spot propped up with pillows at his back and under his leg and so on and so forth.

“Yeah,” Spot sighed, leaning back against the headboard.

Standing at the side of the bed, Race hesitated. Normally he’d just crawl right on top of Spot, or over him so he could sit on his other side, but right then he was walking on eggshells. There’s always a weird formality to interaction after a fight—was it even ‘after’? Were they just going to start up into it again?  _ Was _ it even a fight? Everything was just unhappy uncertainty, and Race didn’t know what to do.

Spot frowned up at him. “Well, are you just gonna stand there?”

Feeling kind of dumb, Race took that as an invitation to go ahead and sit down—well, not so much just sit down as clamber over Spot’s legs and up onto the bed next to him, but still not right up on him, like he usually would. He wasn’t sure if Spot wanted space.

Spot took a breath, looking down at his hands in his lap instead of at Race. “I guess we have a lot to talk about, baby.”

Race nodded, waiting. If Spot expected him to start, he didn’t even know where to do so. What else was there to say besides ‘I’m sorry’, which he had already said multiple times?

Luckily, Spot seemed to have at least some idea of what he wanted to say. “What you did,” he began after a couple seconds, “what you  _ tried _ to do...is...the worst thing you could possibly do to me.” He shook his head. “I’m gonna be honest; I’m having a real hard time dealing with it. I’m mad that you did it. I’m sad that you were feeling that bad. I’m scared you’re going to do it again. I’m just fucking hurt, Tony.”

It was clear Spot had done a lot of proper thinking since lunch, whereas Race had just obsessed and worried that he was gonna be mad—and clearly he  _ was _ mad, but it wasn’t the sort of mad Race was used to dealing with. Usually it was hot (like heated, although if he was being honest, it was pretty sexy hot too), illogical, gut-wrenching, punch a wall—or your face—sort of mad. This was different—quiet, collected, and a whole different kind of intimidating.

Worse, Spot was  _ hurt _ . Of course he was hurt. Race had tried to fucking kill himself, and ended up hurting pretty much everyone except the person he’d been aiming at, and he hated it, but at this point there was nothing he could do except...

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re sorry,” Spot said in that same dangerously calm tone, “but I don’t forgive you.”

Race tried not to whimper, and he tucked his legs up to his chest, hugging his arms around his knees. “I...don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Spot sighed. “It’s done, and...it is what it is.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I know I  _ did _ , but that wasn’t what I—… I just couldn’t take it anymore. I needed it to stop.”

“I know.” Spot fixed him with a serious look. “I would never try to hurt you, either.” It was obvious he was referencing how Race had flinched away from him before.

Race nodded quickly, and said in a rush. “I know, I know. I don’t know what that was, I know you would never hit me or anything— Well, not anymore I mean.”

“But you didn’t,” Spot said. “For a second there, you weren’t so sure.”

Race wrinkled his mouth up into an unhappy cringe and said again, “I don’t know what that was. Maybe just old instinct or...I dunno. I  _ know _ you wouldn’t hit me—”

Spot spoke up suddenly, “Are you scared of me, Tony?”

Race looked up at him, letting his mouth fall open a tiny bit in surprise. “What? No!”

“Because,” Spot went on, “if there’s something going on, or if I did something to make you think—”

Race shook his head quickly, praying his sincerity showed. “No. I trust you, Spot.”

Spot searched his eyes for a moment, then reluctantly nodded. “Okay.”

“I do, I promise,” Race said. “I love you, and I trust you.”

Spot sighed. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? How—... How am  _ I _ supposed to trust  _ you _ , now?”

Race tucked his legs up tighter. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m always gonna be on edge. I’m always gonna want to know where you are and what you’re doing and if you’re okay. God, I’m gonna go fucking crazy.” Spot looked away, dragging his fingers through his hair before dropping his hand back into his lap.

“I’m not gonna do it again,” Race said miserably, knowing that it didn’t really matter if he said that.

“Even if something else happens?” Spot asked. “If someone else gets hurt or we break up or something? I’m not the kind of guy who hates my ex-boyfriends, Race. I’m always gonna care what happens to you.”

Race’s lip trembled. “Are you gonna break up with me?”

“I’m not planning on it, but I’d really like you to answer the question.”

“I’m not gonna do it again,” Race repeated. He was starting to feel overwhelmed by the conversation and the feelings of guilt and panic that went along with it, and they’d barely even gotten started.

“You better not,” Spot took his hand, “because you’re mine, and I need you here.”

Race stifled a whimper, feeling terribly,  _ terribly _ guilty, and spoke quietly. “I  _ am _ here...”

Spot was looking down, and he brushed his thumb over the back of Race’s hand. He didn’t look so angry anymore. Now, he just looked tired and sad.

“I’m sorry...” Race said, so quietly that Spot probably didn’t even hear it. Race had hurt him,  _ bad _ , and although he knew it before, he could see it plainly now. He had hurt everyone. When he had been gearing up to make his suicide attempt, he hadn’t really even thought about how it would impact Spot and Al and Jack and his parents and everyone else he loved. He had just needed it to stop—all his hurting, and pain, and guilt, and loneliness—he just couldn’t take it anymore, and he needed it to stop, but all the attempt had done was push all that sorrow and helpless fear onto everyone else that loved him, and it hadn’t even been successful. He was still hurting, but now everyone else was, too. He sniffled as a couple tears squeezed their way out of the corners of his eyes. It was all his fault. Every single bit of it was because of things he had done. Things he could have easily  _ not _ done, but did anyway.

Trying to kill himself—why hadn’t he just hung on?  _ Two days _ more, and Spot would have woken up, and everything would’ve been okay, but he couldn’t do it. He was weak, and now  _ every single person he loved _ was hurt.

The wreck—he’d plowed straight into those other cars. He’d had  _ plenty _ of time to stop, or at least slow down, but he’d frozen. He couldn’t do it—he  _ could’ve _ done it, but he didn’t. And then—...

Race wrinkled his face up as bits of the crash flashed through his mind—the icy wash of fear that soaked out from the pit of his stomach as he saw the first collision, Spot shouting his name, helpless and afraid, the heavy  _ thud _ as they collided and the awful  _ crunch _ as his car crumpled around them,  _ Goodbye Yellowbrick Road _ somehow still playing out of the mangled radio—wait, the radio hadn’t been on, that wasn’t right—the smile on his father’s face in the rear view mirror—no, no that wasn’t right either, that was before—...

Race curled up tighter as tears started to flow freely, and his breath became thick, and hard to get in and out of his throat.

Spot sat up a little straighter and let go of Race’s hand to rub his back instead. “Oh Tony, don’t cry, baby.”

It was certainly too late for that, though. Race folded his arms around his knees and dropped his face into them. He dug his fingers into his forearms, not sure if he was trying to ground himself or hoping that, if he just held on tight enough, all the broken pieces would press back together, and everything would be okay. His broken pieces, Spot’s broken pieces, he didn’t even know what he was trying to fix anymore, he just wanted the hurting to stop. All the guilt, and the fear, and the miserable loneliness. He just wanted it to stop, but it didn’t stop, it just kept going and getting worse. He kept making everything worse, and now he could barely breathe and barely think over the screeching of metal in his head as he heard the car crumpling around him—he wasn’t even  _ in _ the car anymore, but Jesus, it was still so loud.

“Racer?” Spot’s voice sounded tinny and far away. “Race, look at me.”

Race sobbed. He didn’t want to look at Spot. He didn’t want to see the fear on his face as Race failed to stop the car. He didn’t want to see him, bloodied and unconscious after impact. He didn’t want to see him all broken and covered in tubes and bandages.

Spot’s hand landed protectively on the back of his neck, and Race jolted, not expecting the sudden contact. Spot jerked his hand away, as if he was as startled as Race was, and Race’s mind flooded with the sight and sound and  _ feeling _ of the paramedics ripping Spot out of his arms and taking him away. Another sob, painful and gutting, wrenched out of Race’s chest, and he started to cry even harder. He curled up tighter, gripping his arms so tight he could feel his fingernails digging painfully into his skin. His breath came in sharp, painful gasps, and he couldn’t properly get enough air in before it was all forced out of him in the next wrenching sob.

* * *

Spot hadn’t meant for this to happen. He hadn’t meant to put Race into a panic attack, but in hindsight, he should have known that’s what would happen. Then there was this business of Race not wanting Spot to touch him, which, in addition to upsetting, was wildly out of character. It was like, in the course of a few short hours, Spot’s life had been flipped on its head. Again. There had been a lot of that, recently.

But first, Race needed him.

Very inelegantly, Spot scooched around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed in front of Race, twisting his upper body towards him. “Race, can you hear me?”

Race let out a gasping sob, like he was trying to answer but all he could do was cry. He reached out, towards where Spot had been sitting, and when his hand met empty air, and then the bedsheets, he let out a little, pathetic, miserable whimper and curled up even tighter, pressing his face into his other arm that was still folded across his knees.

“Shit, baby, I’m right here.” Spot leaned in and wrapped his arms around him as best he could with Race all curled up like that.

“Oh,” Race let out a little sob of relief and leaned heavily into Spot’s chest, moving his hand from the sheets to twist into the front of Spot’s shirt.

“It’s alright,” Spot told him. “It’s alright.”

He hated that Race was hurting. He wished they could redo the past two weeks, go straight home after school, save Race the trauma. Himself too, he supposed, but his body was healing; the accident had dug open old wounds in Race that were much deeper.

He just wanted Race to be okay, but Race wasn’t okay. Ever since Spot woke up, Race had been teetering just on the right side of shattered, but now that Spot was home, the scales had finally tipped in the wrong direction. Spot’s body may have been broken, but it was Race’s spirit that took the brunt of that crash, and Spot didn’t know how to put it back together. He wasn’t a psychiatrist or a therapist, he was just an eighteen year old guy with anger issues who fell in love. Watching Race crumble hurt Spot worse than all his broken bones ever did, and he had no idea what to do.

Race just clung to him desperately, hanging on like he was afraid that Spot would disappear if he let go. He sobbed—awful, deep, gutting things, seeming like each one was practically ripping him in half. It took a few more minutes for him to calm down, still quietly crying, but at least Spot wasn’t worried about him hyperventilating anymore.

“Can you hear me now?” he asked.

Race nodded minutely, still curled up in a tight little ball.

“Okay, good.” Spot remembered the parking lot, the little system Albert had used. “What else do you hear?”

“Um,” Race sniffled, “I dunno, I’m weirdly aware of how loud my nose is.”

“Lizzie’s talkin’, too,” Spot pointed out. “You’ve probably tuned her out by now, like I have.”

Race nodded again. “She’s pretty loud...”

“Yeah.” Spot petted his hair. “What do you...fuck, what are the other senses?” He laughed softly. “What do you smell?”

Race leaned a little harder against Spot’s chest. “You—your shirt.”

“Oh, gross.”

Race shook his head. “No, it smells good.”

“What’s it smell like?”

“Mostly like our laundry detergent, which is still weird on you, but I like our laundry detergent.”

Spot hummed in acknowledgement. “You feelin’ better?”

Race sniffled again, and rather than answering, he pulled out of Spot’s arms, then scooted so he was sitting across his lap instead.

Spot waited for him to get settled, then wrapped his arms back around him.

Race let out a quiet exhale, not quite a sigh, leaning into Spot’s chest again. “I’m sorry I freaked out...”

“Don’t worry about that,” Spot said quickly.

“We didn’t even really talk, though.” Race sniffled. “I just had a meltdown instead.”

“Well, I’ve said my piece.”

“So...where does that leave us?”

Spot frowned. What was that supposed to mean? Did Race think this was going to change everything? Did he want it to?

“Well...” Spot shrugged. “I’m a little more worried about you than I was this morning.”

“But...we’re still okay, right?”

“I dunno... You still love me, right?”

Race sat back a little bit so he could look at Spot, clearly surprised. “ _ Yes? _ Of course.”

Spot smiled. “Then we’re okay.”

“You still love  _ me _ ...right?” Race asked, sounding heartbreakingly unsure.

Spot nodded. “Of course, I do.” He had never been the best at expressing his feelings with words, and this was one of several times it had come back to bite him in the ass. He took Race’s face in his hands. “I mean, yeah, you’re kind of a mess, like a—...baby...tiger or something that someone brought home as a pet, and then it grew up, but I love that about you.”

Race was quiet for a moment, then snorted quietly. “So what you’re saying is, I’m grrreat.”

Spot frowned. “What?”

Race giggled, still a bit wet with tears. “Frosted Flakes.”

For a hot second, Spot thought Race had well and truly cracked. Then it hit him, and he sighed heavily. “Tony the Tiger.”

Race burst into a small fit of watery giggles, leaning heavier into Spot’s chest.

Spot rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms back around him. “You’re out of control, Higgins.”

“You said it, not me!”

Spot tickled his sides, and Race squealed, giggling harder and smacking at his hands. Spot caught his wrists. “Feel better, now?”

Race nodded, suddenly subdued again, and answered quietly, “I’m always better with you.”

Spot smiled softly and leaned in, tilting his head to kiss him. At the last second, he dodged and stuck his tongue in Race’s ear instead. Race shrieked and flailed, smacking at Spot’s head.

Spot grinned. “April Fool’s, bitch.”


	108. Impending Zoom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Youth Group Interlude

After dinner, Race commandeered his laptop to set up for the impending Zoom call. Upon returning home, Mrs. Higgins had told Race that Buttons was planning to do virtual youth group, and although his spirits had been rather dampened by the events of the afternoon, the prospect of youth group on April Fool’s Day was not one Race could pass up, even if he didn’t really have any pranks in mind.

“I can’t even escape,” Spot grumbled as Race set up the laptop on Spot’s bed.

Race looked over at him, a bit surprised—or maybe disappointed. “Did you want to?”

“What?” Spot shook his head. “No, I’m messing with you. Come here.” He held out his arm for Race.

Race exhaled with a smile and climbed up onto the bed, nearly upsetting the pile of pillows he’d balanced the laptop on in doing so. He settled against Spot’s side, and Spot began tracing shapes on his arm.

Race exhaled again, a happy not-quite-sigh. “I wonder what we’re gonna talk about tonight.” He meant it partially because he never paid attention to what the schedule was for Buttons’ sermons, and partially because he suspected the plan had been thrown out the window in favor of a Start of Quarantine theme.

“God, I hope it’s about the plagues,” Spot said.

Race looked over at him in mild surprise. “How do you know about the plagues?”

Spot’s eyes widened slightly, and he stammered, “Well— I— I mean—”

“I thought you weren’t raised religious or anything?”

“I wasn’t.” Spot said. He shifted around, pressing his lips together. “I borrowed the Bible from your parents’ office. I’ve been reading it.”

Race’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Since when!?”

“A few weeks, I guess.” Spot wiggled some more. “I started at the beginning, but...Leviticus kinda sucks.”

Race nodded. “Leviticus sucks ass. Why didn’t you tell me!?” He’d had no idea Spot had any interest in actually pursuing faith. Going to church on Sunday and saying grace before dinner were part of the Higgins House Handbook, but there was no contingency clause on actual belief or personal practice. The fact that Spot was actually going out of his way learn was delightful to Race.

Spot shrugged. Was he really embarrassed about this? “Dunno.”

“Wait.” Race shifted, scooting around so he was sitting with his legs crisscrossed, facing Spot rather than tucked against his side. “Are you like,  _ interested? _ ”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, in God.” He continued quickly, “If you’re just curious about the stories, and like, learning for funsies or whatever, that’s totally great too. I mean, I’m always a slut for a good well rounded worldview.”

Spot shrugged again. “I dunno, Race... I guess I’m tryin’ to figure that out.”

Race beamed. “That’s awesome, baby.” He bounced a little. “Shit, that’s really exciting. Y’know, even if you decide you don’t swing that way, that’s still really exciting! Yay for expanding self-concept!”

Spot smiled a little. “Yeah, thanks, baby.”

“No seriously.” Race reached out, taking both of Spot’s hands in his. “I’m not gonna be weird about it, or pressure you or anything. I think it’s cool that you’re open to exploring that part of you, and if you decide it isn’t for you, that’s cool too. I love you no matter what.”

“I love you, too.”

“Does dad know? Just cause he might be going nuts if he thinks his Bible is lost, I mean.”

Spot chuckled. “Yeah, I asked him before I took it.”

Race nodded. “Okay cool. He wasn’t weird about it, was he?”

“Nah.”

Another nod. “Good.”

As much as he wanted to keep talking about this, ask Spot what stories he had read and what he thought of them, youth group was about to start. Race shifted again, leaning over to the laptop to click into the Zoom call, which was now open. Buttons’ face appeared, with several smaller squares beneath his displaying other members of the youth group.

“Heeeey!” Race greeted happily, scooting back to settle next to Spot again.

Buttons smiled. “Hi, Race!” His smile widened. “Spot! I’m so glad to see you doing better.”

Spot looked somewhat startled. “Oh. Yeah, good to be...doing better.”

“We’ve been praying for you.”

Before Spot had a chance to answer, Race noticed there was someone else in the frame with Buttons, a little further in the background, and interrupted excitedly. “Buttons, you brought a date!”

“Wh—” Buttons blinked. “Yes, I’m at home; my husband is here.”

Race beamed, and waved enthusiastically. “Hi husband!”

Buttons’ husband, who was barely in the frame, wearing pajamas, and eating a bowl of cereal, waved awkwardly. Race giggled quietly, absolutely delighted. The domestic life of Buttons and—ahh fuck, what was husband’s name? Elmer had called him Specs, and honestly, that fit. It had stuck more than his actual name—the domestic life of Buttons and Specs was absolutely the stuff of dreams.

Moments later, a square labeled Elmer Kasprzak appeared in the bottom left corner of the screen, and all hell broke loose.

First, Elmer sucked in a deep breath and screamed—just screamed bloody murder. Chaos erupted as others demanded to know what was going on; Buttons loudly asked Elmer what was wrong and could he please quiet down, someone else screamed too—though honestly it was hard to tell who—and Race just laughed. Then, behind Elmer, Father Richard burst into his room and shouted, “What the fuck is going on!?” Each and every one of them let out a gasp of shock at hearing Father Richard swear, and Race clapped his hands over his mouth to stifle a giggle.

Elmer burst out laughing, and Father Richard huffed good-naturedly, “You are a devil child, Elmer.”

“Love you, too, Dad!”

Father Richard shook his head, smiling anyway. “Sorry for the interruption, Jesse.”

Buttons, who was trying not to laugh to the effect of looking like he just ate an entire peeled lemon, squeaked, “No problem, Richard.”

The rest of the congregation—is it even a congregation if it’s just youth group?—wasn’t at all burdened by such efforts. Everyone was snickering and giggling into their hands as Father Richard smiled and shut the door behind him. Even Specs laughed a bit.

“Alright,” Buttons said, regaining his composure, “it’s a few minutes past, so let’s go ahead and get started. In honor of the pandemic, I thought we could have a fun little talk about the plagues.”

* * *

As it happened, Zoom youth group was a lot smaller than regular youth group, with only eleven participants—thirteen if you included Buttons and his husband. That made for ten screens plus Buttons, since Spot and Race were together, resulting in a fun activity in which everyone was tasked with finding scientific evidence for a specific plague. Spot and Race got frogs.

“I fuckin’ love frogs,” Race said quietly, pulling the laptop closer so he could start searching.

“Man, God’s wild,” Spot mused. “Like, sometimes He’s like ‘sacrifice your son’, and other times, He‘s like ‘have a shitload of frogs’.”

“Did you know that, in one interpretation of the Torah, due to a grammatical irregularity, it points to the plague of frogs actually being the plague of frog, singular?” Race snickered. “Something like ‘and the frog emerged from the Nile and covered the land of Egypt’ or whatever. So like, just one  _ big ass frog _ .”

“You fool,” Spot said, “that was God Himself.”

Race laughed. “I, for one, welcome Frog God.”

Spot smiled, glad Race was feeling better—or, at least, acting like he was, but Race wasn’t great at hiding his feelings. He was great at lying, sure, but not hiding his feelings.

“There’s a couple articles about the plagues happening,” Race said, eyes on the laptop screen. “Time, the Telegraph, LiveScience. This one says that lack of oxygen accelerates the growth of tadpoles into frogs, so lower oxygen levels in the Nile would’ve resulted in a boom of frog babies.”

Spot nodded. “Interesting. Any ideas what caused the low oxygen?”

“Uhhh, toxic algae. The whole Nile turning to blood thing was probably actually burgundy blood algae, which stains the water red when it dies. If the river got all gross and silty from drought, the algae would’ve thrived and then died and fucked up the oxygen levels in the river.”

“So the first plague caused the second.”

“Looks like it.”

Spot hummed. “S’kinda cool. Like, the story’s been passed on and written down and probably changed a million times, but originally it was a firsthand account of something that actually happened thousands of years ago.”

Race nodded. “Right? It’s absolutely bonkers.” Leave it to Racetrack Higgins to condense the summation of the awe of divinity to ‘absolutely bonkers’.

They continued researching for a few minutes, bouncing jokes back and forth about Frog God, until Buttons called the meeting back to order. He barely had time to ask what everyone found before Race leaned forward to turn on their microphone and said, “God is a big frog, can confirm.”

Buttons blinked. “I’m...sorry?”

“God is a frog,” Race repeated, “and he squished Egypt with his fat frog ass.”

“What Race means,” Spot said, “is that low oxygen levels accelerate the growth of frogs, so the frog boom was likely caused by,” he gestured uselessly to the screen of the girl who researched the river turning to blood, “the first plague.”

“That’s very interesting. Thank you, Spot, and Race too,” Buttons said. “Janine, why don’t you go ahead and tell us what the first plague was, then?”

Janine went on to talk about the bloom of red algae, which she pronounced with a hard G, and the discussion continued with each student explaining one of the plagues. It was honestly quite interesting. Spot had to admit that youth group was pretty fun, in a weirdly juvenile way. He was having a good time.

“So tell me,” Buttons said when the last plague had been explained, “what do you think about this plagues being scientifically explained? Do you think maybe it wasn’t God’s doing, after all?”

Spot certainly had been thinking that. It sounded like the plagues were nothing but a natural disaster, not unlike the one they were living in.

“Why can’t it be both?” a boy—Spot thought his name was Cameron?—said. “If God knows everything, who’s to say He didn’t set all this in motion? Just because it had a natural cause doesn’t mean it wasn't part of His plan.”

Spot hadn’t thought of that.

Buttons nodded. “That makes a lot of sense, Cameron.”

“It’s like that joke about the pious man on the rooftop, right?” another boy spoke up. “There’s a big flood, and this guy is trapped on the roof, and he prays for God to save him. An inflatable life raft comes by, and the guy refuses their help, saying if he’s good and faithful and keeps praying, God will send a miracle and save him. A boat comes by, he keeps praying, a helicopter comes by, he keeps praying. The guy ends up dying, and he gets to heaven, and he asks God why He didn’t save him, and God says ‘I sent you help three times over, yet you refused.’”

Buttons nodded. “Miracles don’t always look the way we expect them to.”

That struck a chord with Spot, but he wasn’t sure what it meant.


	109. Useless Fluff Because We Wanted It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this chapter further the plot at all? No! Here it is, anyway.

Spot wasn’t surprised when Albert showed up for lunch again on Thursday. What surprised him was how he felt about it. He had never liked Albert. Not once. Not for a second. He tolerated his presence for Race’s sake, but let’s face it; Albert was an asshole. He was intentionally abrasive at every opportunity, and he didn’t like Spot, so why should Spot like him? That’s why it was so surprising when he walked into the Higgins’ living room, and Spot was glad to see him.

“What’s up, fuckwads?” Albert greeted them, and Race—who had come in from the office to cuddle the instant class was over—flipped him off over the back of the couch. Albert crashed into the armchair. “I see the happy couple has made up.” Now Spot flipped him off, as well. “Well good,” Albert continued, as if either of them had offered a reasonable or polite answer. “You’re gross, but honestly I’d hate to see you break up.”

“Aww, Al, that’s so sweet,” Race cooed.

Now Albert flipped  _ him _ off.

“So what’s for lunch today?” Race asked.

“I don’t know,” Albert replied incredulously, “it’s your house!”

“You’re the one just barging in,” Race retorted, rolling off Spot and off the couch, “I thought you might have a plan.”

“No.”

“Jesus Christ,” Spot groaned. “Just make sandwiches, again.”

“Ooh, well, aren’t we just the model of the marital man?” Race mocked, much in the same tone one would ask what ever happened to romance. “‘Honey, go make me a sandwich! Women belong in the kitchen!’ Well joke’s on you, mister, I ain’t no women.”

“How is that a joke on me? I’m gay.”

“And thank God for that!”

Race headed for the kitchen, smacking at Albert’s shoulders and face (with his non-casted hand) as he rounded the side of the couch. “Come on, fellow housewife, let’s go make my man some sandwiches.”

“Make your own man a sandwich!” Albert protested, slapping back. “Useless.”

“Actually,” Spot made a split second decision and interrupted, “I’d like to borrow Albert for a minute.”

Both of them looked at him in mild surprise, then Race shrugged. “Okay, don’t kill each other.”

“No promises,” Spot and Albert responded in unison.

Race rolled his eyes and pouted, but left for the kitchen anyway. Albert gave Spot a look that was closer to confusion—or maybe suspicion—than irritation, so that was something at least.

“What’s up?”

“Thank you,” Spot said, trusting Albert would know what he was talking about. “I know you didn’t do it for me, you love him, but not a lot of people would or... _ could _ have done what you did to get to him so...” Spot shrugged, suddenly feeling awkward. “Thank you.”

Albert blinked, then shrugged. “Well, yeah. I mean, what else could I do?”

“I don’t know,” Spot admitted, “but I owe you, like, a million times over. I mean it; if I can ever do anything for you—”

Albert grimaced a bit, and shook his head. “You said it; I did it for him. Or, hell, maybe I did it for me. You’re not the only one who can’t imagine a life without that dumbass in it. He’s my best friend, I wasn’t gonna let him just—” He broke off, screwing his face up in a slightly crumpled scowl.

Spot sighed. “Okay, look, I know you don’t like me, but we have one important thing in common, and that’s him. I hate that he was feeling like that, and I couldn’t be there for him. You were, and I’m so... _ fucking _ glad you were.”

Albert shrugged. “It’s what I’m here for. I’m always gonna look out for him.”

“Just let me thank you.”

He snorted. “Okay, thank me.”

“Thank you,” Spot said seriously, ignoring Albert’s apparent amusement. “Seriously, I mean it. Thank you.”

Albert nodded, momentarily sincere as well. “Of course.”

“Well...” Spot cleared his throat. “You should probably go help him, or he’ll bring back, like, mashed potato and pickle sandwiches or something.”

“Yeah,” Albert agreed, already standing up, “this got awkward.”

“Yeah, fuck off,” Spot quipped.

“I’m fuckin’, I’m fuckin’,” Albert answered, disappearing into the kitchen, where he was immediately met with a high-pitched “ _ What!? _ ” from Race.

“I said ‘I’m fuckin’,” Albert explained, and Race hollered, “Hey Spot, Al’s  _ fuckin’! _ ”

“I know!” Spot hollered back. “Who do you think he was fuckin’?”

This was met with a loud, long-suffering groan from Albert.

“Noooo,” Race complained, equally loud, “not without meee!”

In the end, the three of them had grilled cheeses for lunch.

* * *

That evening, after dinner, Race and the rest of the dance boys had agreed to hangout on Skype for a bit. Apparently Jojo was going crazy from lack of ‘reasonable human interaction’—though, if it was ‘reasonable’ he was seeking, this was hardly the company for it. Clearly, everyone was pent up and stir crazy.

“It just fucking sucks,” Finch was complaining. “Like, she sends me pictures and videos and stuff, but if everything keeps going like it is, she’ll only get to have one person in the delivery room, and she wants her mom. How fucked is it that I might not even get to see the birth of my own fucking baby?”

The rest of them grimaced sympathetically, and Tommy Boy agreed, “Yeah, that’s pretty shit.”

Finch raked his fingers through his hair, obviously agitated, and understandably so. Race remembered what it felt like to be told only Julie could stay with Spot.

“It sucks, man,” he commiserated. “What about afterwards?”

“Once they’re home, I’m moving in. Her parents can kiss my ass,” Finch said. “I mean...technically, they could call the cops and have me trespassed, but...” He shrugged. “I’m hoping they don’t think that far into it...”

“Yeah, your baby-mama might be a little upset if her parents have you arrested,” Race agreed, as Jojo quickly said, “I’m sure the Hollises wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, they don’t like me,” Finch said, “like, at all.”

“I’m sure they’ll come ‘round,” Jojo said, ever the optimist and Tommy Boy added, “Yeah they’re kinda stuck with you.”

“You’re part of the family now, whether they like it or not,” Race agreed, though it occurred a second too late that he probably could have worded it better.

Finch chuckled, dripping with sarcasm. “Lucky me.”

“They’ll have to get over it and accept you, eventually,” Race continued, “and if not,” he shrugged, “just say fuck it and steal their daughter. It’s working out pretty great for me.”

“Ooh, yeah, how is he?” Jojo asked, referring to Spot.

As always, Race was happy to jump on the topic of his boyfriend—or jump on his boyfriend, for that matter—“Yeah, he’s doing really good! Got him all settled, back in the guest room, and I’ve done a damn fine job taking care of him so far. So hey, Finch, if you ever need a babysitter...” Race shot finger-guns at his laptop screen.

“Do you change your boyfriend’s diapers?” Finch asked flatly.

“No, but I changed my own, yesterday.”

“Hey, can we meet your boyfriend?” Tommy Boy asked, and Jojo gasped excitedly, “Yesss, I wanna meet Spot!”

Race was almost surprised that none of them even batted an eyebrow at the mention of ‘his own diaper’, but honestly… “Sure,” he replied happily, picking up his laptop and heading for the stairs. “Hey Spot?” He called as he descended. “The guys from dance wanna say ‘hi’, that cool?”

“Does it matter?” Spot called back. “S’not like I can go anywhere.”

“We’re in!” Race whispered loudly, as if he’d just hacked into a top-security database, rather than obtaining his boyfriend’s permission to meet his friends.

“He sounds thrilled,” Finch teased.

“Don’t worry, I have enough enthusiasm for the both of us,” Race assured him, bouncing down the last few steps and into the living room.

As he entered, Spot turned to face forward instead of sideways on the couch, giving Race room to sit next to him. Beaming, Race crashed down beside him, planting a kiss on his cheek in landing.

“Guys, this is Spot. Spot, that’s Tommy Boy, Finch, and Jojo.” He pointed to each square on the Zoom call in turn.

“Why did your parents give you a dog name?” Tommy Boy asked immediately.

Race choked, half laughing. “Tommy, no!”

“My real name’s Sean,” Spot replied. “What are you anyway, like, twelve?”

Tommy Boy pouted as the other boys laughed. “I’m fifteen, shut up.”

“He’s compact,” Finch said, and Spot nodded.

“Same.”

Race snorted. “‘Fun size’.”

Tommy Boy suddenly veered into a new subject. “Hey, you were in a coma, right? What was that like? Did you have some sort of out-of-body experience?”

“Nope,” Spot said. “I passed out in the car and woke up in the hospital.”

“Damn, that’s crazy,” Finch said.

Well below the view of the camera, Spot took Race’s hand and laced their fingers together. “Yeah, it was pretty crazy.”

“You don’t remember anything?” Tommy Boy asked, clearly fascinated. “No wacky coma dreams or anything?”

“Nah. Wasn’t a real coma, anyway—they put me under.”

“Oh,” Tommy replied, and Race scoffed, amused.

“I’m sorry, are you disappointed that my boyfriend’s coma wasn’t cool  _ enough? _ ”

“He didn’t say that,” Jojo cut in, as Tommy Boy shot back, “Yeah, go big or go home.”

Race laughed. “Yeah, well, he came home.”

That brought a tiny smile to Spot’s face—or, at least, the corner of his lip twitched. Good enough.

“Well I, for one, am glad your coma was boring, and you got home sooner rather than later,” Jojo said.

“Yeah, thanks, uh...” Spot had clearly forgotten his name already. “Pal.”

Race pressed hips lips together tightly, sputtering into laughter as Jojo corrected him.

“It’s Jojo.”

“No, no, ‘pal’ is good.” Finch was laughing too.

“Right. So uh...” Spot began awkwardly, before turning to Race for help.

Race was just about to suggest NASCAR as a topic, when Finch piped up, “You wanna see my kid?”

Spot blinked. “Oh, you’re the one with the baby?”

“Yeah!” Finch enthused, shifting to pull a folded up picture out of his pocket—either he had prepped for this, or he just always carried the picture around, and Race couldn’t decide which was cuter.

Finch held the photo up in front of his camera. It was one of those weird, orangey, 3D sonogram photos. “Her name’s Magdalyn, but we call her Maggie, and she’s about the size of a rutabaga.”

“Good vegetable pull,” Jojo commented with a nod, and Tommy Boy frowned. “Is a rutabaga a vegetable?”

Race frowned as well. “What else would it be?”

“I dunno,” Tommy answered with a shrug, “maybe a legume?”

“My daughter is not a legume,” Finch complained.

“I just looked it up,” Jojo said. “Your daughter is a root vegetable.”

“She’s a  _ beautiful _ root vegetable!” Race emphasized.

“I don’t mean to piss you off, man,” Spot said, “but she kinda does look like a root vegetable in that.”

“Aww come on man what the fuuuck?” Finch protested, and Race snickered. Finch looked at the picture and frowned. “Well, shit, she kinda does.”

* * *

Spot put it off as long as he could, but by Friday night, he was completely disgusting a needed to shower. Mrs. Higgins had ordered him a cast cover, so getting it wet wasn’t a huge concern, but the logistics of moving around and getting in and out of a slippery shower did not seem fun. Unfortunately, waiting longer wasn’t going to make the shower less slippery, so he grit his teeth and grabbed his crutches to help pull himself off the couch.

“You good?” Race asked from his spot at the other end of the couch—unglued from Spot’s lap for the moment, as he had homework.

“Yeah,” Spot sighed. “I just...really need a shower.”

“Oh,” Race set the laptop aside, standing up as well. “Okay, cool.”

“Where are you going?”

Race knit his eyebrows, smiling like Spot had just said something really stupid. “To the bathroom? Unless you moved the shower, when I wasn’t looking.”

“I...wasn’t aware that showering was now a spectator sport,” Spot said. It’s not that he would have minded Race watching him shower under normal circumstances, but this was bound to be embarrassing.

“Spectator? Pshh,” Race scoffed, still smiling. “It’s a  _ team _ sport, baby.”

Spot eyed him suspiciously. “And the fact that both your parents are here doesn’t bother you?”

“Would you rather one of them helped you, ‘stead of me?” Race asked, pouting.

Spot cringed. “Yeeeaah no.”

Race nodded resolutely. “Alright, let’s go.”

Just then, Mr. Higgins passed in the hallway on his way to the kitchen. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, I’m just gonna help Spot with a shower,” Race answered.

Mr. Higgins narrowed his eyes for a moment, glancing between the two of them, and then at Spot’s cast and crutches. “Alright, I’ll allow it. But not funny business.” His tone was more teasing than anything, and Race grinned widely.

“Don’t worry, Dad; in the shower, with all the soap and stuff—much too slippety-wippety to discretely do the hippety-dippety.  _ Especially _ with the cast and everything.”

Mr. Higgins scrunched up his face. “The  _ what? _ ”

“You know. Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it.”

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” Mr. Higgins quickly continued on his way. “Be careful.”

“We will,” Race promised.

They made their way over to the bathroom, which was still without a mirror after Spot’s little outburst on the phone with Julie. Spot was glad he wouldn’t have any way to actually see himself during this inevitable disaster.

“Shit. The cast cover is in my room,” he said.

“I’ll get it.” Race offered quickly. “Don’t start without me.” He shot him a ridiculous wink before disappearing through the doorway.

Spot rolled his eyes fondly and turned on the water so it could start getting hot. Race returned soon after, cast cover in hand.

“Thanks.” Spot pulled his shirt off over his head and pulled his pants down as far as he could, then sat on the toilet to let Race get them the rest of the way off. Once done, Race tossed his pants absently towards the counter, and went ahead and began stripping off his own clothes. “Can you help me with the cover, too?” Spot asked, feeling decidedly annoying and useless.

“Oh, yeah, duh,” Race answered quickly, turning back to help him.

Once that was finished, Spot carefully stood up, holding onto the counter for balance. “I...really don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.”

Race hummed, looking at the shower appraisingly. “I mean, all you gotta do is balance, I’ll do everything else.”

“Right.” It sounded so simple, when he put it like that.

“I wish we had one of those railings, like in handicap bathrooms.” Race mused. “Though you can just hold onto me, instead. I’ll get in first, so I can help you balance on the way in.”

Spot hoped his skepticism didn’t show on his face. “Okay.”

Race finished shedding his clothes and climbed into the shower, then turned and held out his hands towards Spot. Spot took them and carefully hopped towards him. He nearly slipped on his first ‘step’ into the shower, but Race quickly caught him.

“Off to a great start.” Race grinned.

Spot groaned. “Fuck this cast.”

“Don’t worry, I gotcha,” Race said, a bit softer, helping Spot find his balance again.

Spot placed one hand on the wall and carefully scooched the rest of the way in.

“Okay,” Race said, shifting aside so the warm water from the shower head could hit Spot, and okay, yes, that felt better. While he’d been cleaned up at the hospital, Spot hadn’t had a real shower since before the accident.

He sighed and leaned against the side of the shower, letting his eyes close. God, he was  _ tired _ . Race was gently running a hand over his skin—cupping handfuls of water to help wet his shoulders and back—with his other hand still resting at Spot’s waist to keep him steady.

“Turn around,” Race instructed, “so I can get your hair wet.”

Spot grunted and turned without opening his eyes.

“Tilt’cher head back,” Race said quietly, placing a hand on the back of Spot’s head to gently guide him back into the water.

His words didn’t actually register until a few seconds later, but by then, Spot had already done what he asked. Once Spot’s hair was properly soaked, Race nudged him to tilt up again, and a second later began working a small handful of shampoo into his hair. It felt...amazing. Everyone knows the best part of a haircut is getting your hair washed by the stylist at the salon, and somehow—even though stylists are specifically trained to do a little scalp massage and everything—having Race do it felt even better. Spot tilted his head back into Race’s hands. Race pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his head, then immediately turned his face away to sputter and spit out soap.

Spot laughed. “What—it doesn’t taste like green apple, too?”

“Shut up, I didn’t think it through,” Race grumbled.

“Yeah that sounds like you.”

Race  _ humph _ ed and continued massaging the shampoo into Spot’s scalp. His hair didn’t really need that much attention—there wasn’t much left, after his surgery—but he wasn’t about to complain.

After another minute, Race guided Spot to tilt his head back under the water again, and rinsed the shampoo away, being careful not to get the sudsy water in his eyes.

Spot hummed. “Have you considered being a professional hair washer?”

Race snorted quietly. “What?”

“I know it’s stupid. Shut up.”

Race chuckled and started rubbing something else into Spot’s hair.

Spot frowned. “What is that?”

“Conditioner,” Race answered, like it was ridiculously obvious.

“I have literally never used conditioner in my life,” Spot told him.

Race made a scandalized noise. “Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“You live like a caveman,” Race replied, saying it softly, cooing, like he was admiring him. “Tilt’cher head back, caveman,” he instructed, guiding his head back under the water again to rinse the conditioner out.

After this was done, he grabbed body wash and set about washing Spot’s back, which was basically the best thing ever. His muscles were tense and sore after being on crutches for so many days, and Race’s gentle touch felt like heaven. He must’ve made some noise or other indication of satisfaction, because Race’s touch turned just the littlest bit firmer, changing from just washing across the surface of his skin to actually rubbing against his muscles.

“God, I love you,” Spot said.

Race hummed happily, continuing to rub his back and his shoulders, more focused now on working the muscles than washing. After another minute or so, he gently instructed, “Turn around, so I can wash your front too.”

Spot did so carefully, nearly tripping on his cast on the way around. Race got some more body wash in his hand, and started cleaning Spot’s chest, stomach, and arms.

Spot smirked. “You know I can wash this part of myself, right?”

Race half-shrugged. “Maybe I like taking care of you.”

“‘M not complainin’.”

“You better not,” Race replied huffily. He rinsed the soap off one of Spot’s arms, and placed it up over his own shoulder, then did the same with the other.

Spot reached up into Race’s hair and raked his fingers through his damp curls.

Race smiled at him, wrapping his arms gently around his waist, and leaned his forehead against Spot’s. “Hi,”

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“You feelin’ better, now that you aren’t all smelly?”

Spot chuckled. “Yeah, a lot better.”

Race hummed. “Good.”

Spot brought his hands down and slid them around Race’s waist instead.

“I love you,” Race said.

“I love you, too.” Spot gave him a gentle kiss. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Race smirked. “What, you think I’m not gonna help you? Stupid.”

Spot brushed his hand through Race’s hair again, just because he knew Race liked it, and Race sighed a quiet, happy sigh, tilting his head into Spot’s hand. This was what made being with Race so different than any other relationship Spot had ever been in—not the  _ only _ thing, but maybe the most important thing—the actual intimacy. It went beyond kissing and cuddling and sex. They each knew and cared for each other on a level Spot had never experienced before. They each knew what the other liked, disliked, feared, and needed, and they took care of each other, not because they were boyfriends and that’s what boyfriends do, but because they cared.

“You’re my world, Tony,” Spot murmured.

“No, you,” Race cooed happily.

“Okay, let’s get this shower over so I can cuddle you.”

* * *

Out of the shower and in clean clothes—in addition to the cast cover Mrs. Higgins had also ordered some extra-large pairs of sweatpants for Spot—Race and Spot settled back onto the couch, and Race set about finding something stupid and mindless on TV. Spot was half asleep anyway, with his elbow propped up on the arm of the couch and his head on his hand. Race quickly settled on Top Chef and cozied on up to Spot, scooting closer, between his legs, to lean against his chest. Spot made a sleepy little noise and dropped a kiss on the top of Race’s head.

Race beamed as warmth pooled in his chest, and he sighed happily. “I really love you, you know that?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Race shifted a bit to get more comfortable. “You’re really cute when you’re sleepy.”

“Hm, fuck off.”

“Sean,” Mrs. Higgins chided from the office, “language.”

“S’ry, Mom,” Spot mumbled.

Race bit his lip hard in an attempt to stifle a delighted giggle, not wanting to draw attention to the slip, in case Spot got embarrassed.

Spot grumbled nonsense and wiggled, sliding a couple inches down onto the couch and really mashing his cheek onto the top of Race’s head. Now Race couldn’t help erupting into giggles. He grabbed one of Spot’s arms and pulled it over his chest like a seatbelt. Being with sleepy Spot was basically like having a large, angry teddy bear, and Race  _ loved _ it.

Now that he was in love with Spot, he could hardly believe he had ever thought he was in love before. Nothing he’d ever had before could even begin to measure up to the depth of what he felt for Spot. Furthermore, how could he have ever  _ not loved _ Spot? What was really blowing his mind was that there had been a time when he just...hadn’t cared. Forgot about him. Didn’t have any feelings. When they’d hated each other, there was still  _ depth _ , there was still  _ feeling _ , and a lot of it. Race just couldn’t imagine not having feelings for Spot—no matter which way they skewed.

Someone on Top Chef dropped a pan, and Spot woke up at the noise, groaning and crushing Race against his chest.

Race giggled quietly, shifting so he was more on his stomach than on his side, and snuggled impossibly closer to Spot’s chest. “You’re fine, babe. Go to sleep,” Race shushed him.

“No, shut up, I’m not lame.” Spot settled his arms around Race’s waist and looked at the TV, though he had the blank look in his eye of one who’d had a long week and was not comprehending much of Top Chef.

Race laughed. “What?”

“It’s too early,” Spot said.

“It’s, like, seven p.m.”

“Exactly; it’s too early to sleep.”

“Nahhh, you’re healing,” Race reasoned. “Broken boys need lots of sleep.”

“Bitch, what did you just call me?” Spot asked.

“Shh shh shh,” Race shushed him, trying to ignore the small stab of guilt in his chest. He knew Spot was joking, but…

Spot ruffled his hair. “Insufferable.”

“Yeah, well, suffer,” Race replied, wiggling a bit and nuzzling his cheek against Spot’s chest. He took a deep breath, trying to let it soak in that everything was fine. Spot was fine, albeit a little broken at the moment. Finch’s daughter was fine. Albert was fine, and he and Spot were even getting along, it seemed.

Everything was fine, and therefore, Race was fine.

He should be fine.


End file.
